


The Reconstruction of Vision and the Scarlet Witch

by Kousagi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, F/M, Illustrated, Psychological Horror, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Surreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kousagi/pseuds/Kousagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beginning where Captain America: Civil War left off, the delicate threads of fate begin to fray. At the heart of this cross stand both Vision and Wanda Maximoff. Having survived the ordeal of the Raft prison by meditation, Wanda's power has evolved exponentially, leading her to question her ability to control it. Meanwhile, Vision remains at Tony's side, assisting in reconnaissance to keep a watchful eye on the former members of the Avengers. Throughout this, Vision begins to question just how long he can continue following a path of logic—a certain witch has touched his mind, but has she ensnared him or freed him?</p><p>The threads of time have woven a path for two souls distinctly sensitive to the lull of fate's tides. Choices made as the universe expects can only be followed for so long before a certain fracture threatens to tear their world apart.</p><p>{ An Illustrated MCU Fanwork  } | { Updates Thursdays! }</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Premonition of a Tangent End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This story uses a work skin, which may affect your reading experience on mobile screens. To enable or disable this skin, click the "Show Creator's Style" or "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top, you can find it between the Comments and Share buttons on the row that includes chapter navigation buttons. As always, thank you for reading!**

 

The roar and rattle of the lift’s motor and cables echoed against concrete walls. It was loud enough to muffle the quiet, choked sobs of the woman inside, one Wanda Maximoff. She had collapsed against a wall just below a palm-sized smear of blood, stealing this one moment of solitude to mourn. The bruised mess of her face was strained into anguish, and as her head cleared, she spat blood.

She couldn’t say what was on the other side of this building’s walls or even if the floor she was descending from would even exist in several more minutes. Perhaps the upper levels would simply cease to be, perhaps they would melt into that black, inky flood of tar and come crashing down through the stairwells.

Either way, all she could do was pray that Clint had made it out of there.

Shifting slightly caused pain to shoot up through her leg and side from the stab wound that was quickly soaking through its bandages. Wanda cursed under her breath, every nerve in her leg like fire. If those demons didn’t catch up to her first, she was going to bleed out. One or the other. There was not much running left on this leg.

Steadying her breaths, Wanda sought to calm herself. That’s what Vision would have encouraged her to do. Nestled in her arms, she cradled all that remained of him—a lifeless head, cut clean down the vibranium seams that met his neck and clavicle.

 _“Keep him safe.”_ Clint had told her before they parted ways.

 _Keep him safe_ , she repeated in her mind. As if there were some hope for him. She wanted to believe it—but she could not sense the myriad of thoughts that had always flowed through his mind before. Nor could she sense the soft, warm glow that always shone inside of him like some distant sun—when death claimed a body, the soul was released and dispersed.

Perhaps Clint truly believed, more than she did, that they would find a way to get Vision back.

The lift’s bell sounded as it came to an unplanned stop on the second level.

Wanda bolted up, weak crimson sparks flickering to fragile life on her one free hand. With a rusty groan, the doors screeched open. Wanda was ready to strike, clutching Vision’s head close.

In the corridor’s gold light, she caught a certain scarlet glint atop the figure’s head and instantly, Wanda’s fears melted away.

“Nat!” Wanda cried, rushing to the lift’s gates. She helped push the heavy machinery open and Natasha was quick to pull her out, one protective arm around her.

“Come on, we gotta move quick.” Natasha said, face exhausted and pale.

She didn’t look good, either, Wanda realized with a pang of guilt and anger. Natasha was leaving a trail of blood from the gunshot wound in below her ribs. One shaking hand was pressed against the wound. Her body was all of bruised and broken, but still, Natasha carried on, giving her injuries little notice.

Natasha looked back into the empty lift and then back to Wanda, eyes widening for a moment, “Where’s Clint?”

Wanda said nothing.

As quickly as Natasha’s expression came, it faded, “…we don’t have a lot of time left. This place is falling apart. Stay close to me. Can you run?”

Wanda nodded.

“Good. You’re going to run.”

Natasha was leading her down the mess of a corridor and through the ground level of the warehouse. They turned and made way down a small, half-flight of stairs. The lights had flickered out, leaving them in the dark until the flashlight on Natasha’s handgun lit the way.

“The only clear exit is through the loading bay. There’s a door on the north wall. Damn thing actually leads outside. Get through it, get out, get to the lake.”

Leaning against one another, Wanda and Natasha staggered through the halls. They passed a string of doors, some caved in and smashed by inhuman fists and some burned out and reeking of ash and cinder.

“You’re coming too, right?” Wanda asked.

The complexion in Natasha’s stoic face seemed to drain a little more with every step. Beads of sweat mingled with smattered blood, dirt, and bruise. Wanda could hear the subtle strain in Natasha’s breaths, leading her to wonder if there was damage to her lungs from that shot through the torso. Had her powers not been so frail, she’d have easily dipped into Natasha’s mind for the answers to her questions—but they too, were fading just as fast as Natasha.

Natasha ignored Wanda’s question and said simply, “…you have to get Vision out of here.”

Breaking glass interrupted Natasha. Two cryptids tumbled through an office window’s remains and hobbled onto the floor. With loud, wheezing breaths, they carried the burning glow of fire over their long, bony limbs. Shining embers dusted off of their arched backs as they lurched in toward them. Glass caught in their long skirts scratched against the floor with every step.

A stream of inky, boiling tar spilled from the ceiling, just a few meters to Natasha’s left. The two of them paled as they watched it pour. One slender pillar of tar, and then another, before several rushing falls had torn through and began to flood the corridors. Boiling heat was fast filling their path and Natasha kicked through the door at the end, guiding them to their destination.

 “Go!” Natasha commanded as the bay’s north exit came into sight.

Several more of the burning demons were climbing out of the tar that pooled in low spots of the floor. Natasha fired at the ones closest to them, gunshots that deafened in the echo of the bay. Wanda pulled whatever heavy equipment she saw, levitating it into the air and throwing it at the demons. Little more than tools and light crates would budge at her mind’s touch—the forklifts and power equipment around was wretchedly impossible to move.

The stench of the boiling tar and every rancid creature the tar pools birthed sickened and dizzied Wanda.

“I’m not telling you again!” Natasha’s voice came behind her, “…go! Get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving you!” Wanda cried.

When Wanda turned back to Natasha, she saw just how many of the quaking demons were walking toward them both. Natasha, standing before this growing, glistening hoard, turned her gun on Wanda.

“Go, or I’ll take that damn stone myself.”

Something inside of Wanda felt like it had been gutted. Shaking her head, Wanda pleaded, “Don’t leave me. Please… don’t make me go without you. I already had to leave Clint, I’m not leaving you, too.”

Natasha’s features softened under a bruised pallor.

Tears stung at Wanda’s eyes and her body trembled. Inside was a storm of frustration and fury—this sense of powerlessness, of having to run, having to hide, it was as infuriating as it was terrifying. It was a familiar bite from the same beast that hunted her in the past.

“You have to go, Wanda. Protect the stone.” Natasha said, her clear eyes fixing on the inanimate head in Wanda’s arms, and she added, “…protect him.”

Natasha’s gloved hand smoothed gently over Wanda’s tousled hair. Natasha gave a soft smile, before her hand left Wanda’s head. The cryptids were mere meters from them both, now.

“Run. Run and don’t look back. I’ll see you when I do, kid.”

Natasha turned back to their pursuers with a fresh clip in her gun.

Wanda made for the door.

Gunshots rang out in the corridor’s concrete walls, deafening ears that were already ringing. The third and final sign of the nightmare reaching its pattern climax arrived in the form of familiar gold tendrils rising up from the pools of tar and climbing walls like possessed vines.

Splintering, crackling, and glittering in what little light filtered in from distant flickering lights, the tendrils were weaving toward them both. She heard more frantic gunshots. Wanda’s hand was on a dirty doorknob and it turned with resistance. She heard the empty click of a spent clip.

 _“Don’t look back.”_ Natasha had said.

Wanda pushed open the door and the midnight shine of pale snow filtered in. Frozen wind hit her like a sheet of needles. The door almost threatened to slam shut against the gale. Wanda shouldered the heavy door open in a flurry of red lights. She was met with an icy gale and the wet storm of frost outside.

Over her shoulder, Wanda looked back.

In both hands, the agent held her last two weapons. Wanda could hear Natasha’s electric batons light up. That was the last Wanda saw of Natasha before she made her way into the storm.

 _“Follow the path,”_ Harkness had said, _“…and he shall meet you on the lake.”_

Down several steps and out onto the bank of Lake Wundagore. The surface was frozen solid and Wanda realized she was not alone on this path toward the heart of the lake. A spotted trail of blood almost shone like a scarlet path, illuminated bold against snow and ice.

Onto the path, then.

Wanda pressed forward, cautious, exhausted, trembling. The pain in her leg was agony and the blood loss left her feeling she could be blown away in the wind at any second. The last miserable hours had been the first time in years that she truly could not hear or feel any presence around her. No powers, no red lights, nothing but the overpowering awareness of silence. The suffocating, constant realization that her powers were fading.

She felt the outpour of tears burn down her cheeks. Clutching Vision’s head tighter, she cursed under her breath in Sokovian once more. Her foot caught in the crags of shifting ice, tearing her balance away and sending her toppling over onto her knees and side.

Freezing ice bit at her fingertips, her palms, and her cheeks. A hammering pain in her head cried out where it had met the lake’s solid surface as though she’d plummeted into concrete. When the half-second of vertigo passed, she realized Vision’s head was no longer in her arms. Her resolve broke, tears fell, and she reached out for him, an arm’s reach away.

Taking his head back into her arms, she cried.

“Vision…” Wanda’s voice quaked. No amount of focus in her powers, on the head in her arms, or even the stone embedded in Vision’s forehead lent her any sense that life remained.

She was alone.

Just like in Novi Grad.

Through the dusting of snow on the wind, she saw the dark form of trees and a rhombic rooftop of a derelict structure. Wanda recognized it as the island near the heart of the lake and that small church Harkness had pointed out to her on a clear night.

 _Keep running,_ Wanda told herself, willing her body back to its feet and closing the distance between herself and the island.

She could almost see the silhouette of the church’s bell tower rising up through the shadows. Wanda could taste blood on her lips, her face too frost-numbed to feel it trickle down her forehead and across her nose.

Wanda certainly heard that low hum, however. Growing louder with each step.

The pain in her leg intensified tenfold when a gold vine tore through the ice beside one foot and then tore through her thigh like a spear—a sense of déjà vu washed over her, but only for a one blissful second before the pain fell on her like a firestorm.

A scream rang out, before Wanda dropped down and felt another vine rip through her shoulder. Several more tendrils cracked through the ice and spiraled around her limbs, tearing her downward. She clutched the head in her arms for dear life and continued a pathetic, hopeless struggle for that island, that church. With a furious and terrified cry, Wanda reached deep into her mind for scarlet lights to tear the wretched binds away.

Reflexively, one hand moved. Nothing.

Her wrist was caught in another splintering vine and it was torn down against the ice.  

This was the end, then. A realization that dawned on her just as it did in Sokovia, the moment she felt everything plummet.

This time, there was no Vision to catch her.

The ice groaned and cracked around her as more vines tore into the air around her, each thorn glittering gold. A pull followed under cracked ice. Wanda felt frozen, black water slosh up from beneath each frozen fracture. She panicked and kicked against the vines one last time before water and ice caved in around her body.

Frozen, deprived of air, the vines dragged her down until the surface was just a fading light far above.

Wanda was falling, drowning, freezing, until every sensation unified as null, black nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm so excited to start sharing this! * u * I've kinda been wanting to write this since about... jeez, Age of Ultron? I didn't really start until Civil War, though, mostly because I wasn't really confident that I could pull off the story I wanted to write and draw for. Anyway, I hope you guys dig it so far! Updates are going to be every other Thursday (so check back on June 30th!) — Check out the tumblr for the release schedule and jump aboard the Scarlet Vision hype train with me. There will be a reason why this story is named after the wonderful comic miniseries these two shared back in the day. Please look forward to it!
> 
> For more art, writings, and fun stuff, the tumblr:  
> http://reconstruction.kousagi.net


	2. To The Envy Of Thoughtless Slumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all began in the Raft; the moment Wanda first saw the glint of light in a monochrome dream.

 

 

Sometimes she could imagine it—the swirling and crashing of waves against the impenetrable structure of the prison, the “Raft” as they called it. Vast, infinite even, they were submerged somewhere miles from land beneath the cold, black heart of the Atlantic. Wanda spent a lot of time in silence, dreaming about the walls of water around them that often made the walls groan and the entire structure rock lazily under deep ocean storms.

In this time, there was not much else to do besides try and lose herself to dreams. Otherwise, she found herself involuntarily listening in on the sadistic thoughts of the guards pacing before her cell or she would catch herself stewing over the events that had put her there—that airport in Schkeuditz.

The rocking of the Raft initially sickened her, but in time, the vertigo and the claustrophobia (mostly) passed, leaving only a nightmare’s echo of some soothing sway. With her arms bound under that heavy blue jacket, the most Wanda could do was lose herself in thoughts—her own, or that of those around her. Whichever were loudest.

Clint and Scott both had very similar trains of thought—they thought of their families, their children. Clint went without sleep longer than Scott or Sam. He laid on his cot staring at the ceiling, his mind a cocktail of bitterness, regret, betrayal, and _worry_ for his wife and children. The name, “Laura” crossed his mind incessantly, to the point that Wanda thought that it would be forever burned into the bottom of her own mind. Quiet at first— _Laura_ —louder by three days in— _Laura, I’m coming home, I promise_ —screaming by the sixth day, though Clint’s face was without expression— _Laura! I’m alive, I’ll be back, I swear to God, I’ll never leave your side again!_

Scott mulled over notably less-pained thoughts. He took solace in the knowledge that “Cassie” was safe with “Maggie”—these were strangers to Wanda, but by the fourth day, she had watched, _felt_ enough of Scott’s memories to know each subtlety of their faces, their expressions, the way Cassie scrunched her freckled nose when she looked at bugs with many legs and looked up at her father with a toothy grin, or even the way Maggie glanced sideward and held her husband’s hand a little tighter when Scott was near (an ex-wife?)

Scott worried about them—the want to be near them again was every bit as loud as Clint’s want to be in Laura’s arms and to feel Lila and Cooper throw their arms around his waist. But where Clint worried about his wife being alone in a homestead, Scott took solace in the home Maggie provided Cassie. Wanda also glimpsed an ant the size of a small dog following Cassie around… but she was not sure if she had simply fallen asleep and dreamt that part up. That couldn’t have been real…?

Sam’s mind was on one person only—with the occasional annoyance that, “on Tuesday, I’d had a date,” passing through his mind every now and then. Wanda’s sense that it was attached to Agent Hill. The person at the forefront of Sam’s mind, however, was Steve.

_Steve. Steve, man. I know you’re coming back for us._

Wanda clung to Sam’s hopes. Sam and his fond memories of Steve—Sam and his dreams that the doors would be blown open and Steve would be there when the dust settled. Sometimes he imagined it with Steve alone, sometimes, with that Bucky Barnes at Steve’s side. Either way, Sam never lost hope that Steve would come for them. Wanda fixated on that—for as long as she could—until that hope was chipped away by each passing minute in the Raft.

Never quite fond of her own dreams, Wanda fought sleep where she could. These days, Wanda could not wake screaming into the night to find Pietro’s soothing arms coming around her, telling her it was only a bad dream. Nor could she wake in a cold sweat just to find herself in the safety of the Avengers facility, in the bed that she had only just started to feel was distinctly her own.

When sleep caught up to her, she dreamt of all the same horrors that had plagued her since childhood. The red flickering light of the missile that had torn into her family’s kitchen. The days she and Pietro waited, nearly crushed under debris and rubble, watching that red light blinking in and out, waiting for the last flicker of light before the flash that would end them both.

Wanda was never very fond of sleep.

Interrogations and psych evaluations were proving fruitless to her captors as Wanda spoke little and made even fewer requests. Even when the rise and fall of the Raft made her mouth dry and her stomach turn, she did not bother to ask for water. They wouldn’t bring it. They ignored Lang (and he never hesitated to ask for anything) and they would ignore her.

They only acknowledged him when he sang his shrill notes and incited the slam of their batons against his cell.

“Shut the hell up in there!”

“Hey, come on, man!” Lang’s dejected voice came.

Wanda could hear the guards’ thoughts, all mulling over ways to torture them should the much-awaited orders arrived. A certain Amos who monitored their cell block for nine hours a day often daydreamed about electrocution and waterboarding. Lang was the first on his list, but Amos was a man of few words and would only make Lang aware of this through action. Wanda decided that Lang, Sam, and Clint were lucky to be deaf to the sadistic thoughts swirling in the guard’s head. Amos’s head was full of “fond” memories of victims who did not survive his interrogation tactics—Wanda had to forcefully remove herself from his mind, lest the visions of his past seep into her already-wretched nightmares.

She kept silent when they shuffled her into laboratories and took detailed scans of her brain, of the electromagnetic anomalies pulsing through her head. Wires pinching through her skin were enough to bear with mild complacency, overdrawn blood was enough to grit her teeth and bear silently, but their frustration with her at the lack of answers each test yielded could only go on for so long.

“I don’t know what Dr. List did to me,” Wanda had hissed on the last day of examination, “…he injected me with serums and he subjected me to pain and seizures like none you could ever imagine. My brother and I were lured into his lab with the promise of hope, but instead, we were dissected and chemically manipulated like rats.”

Dr. Matsumoto was the tired old man in charge of picking apart her body’s altered evolution. His team was coming up with no answers, and he was growing exhausted with the lack of information Wanda could give him. He had listened with a clipboard in hand, taking notes on her words, repeating often, “…and the Infinity Stone? You never once saw it?”

“Never. I saw it only on the day the Avengers infiltrated Dr. List’s compound, when Stark…” Wanda trailed off. A mixture of anger and something she could not quite describe filled her. Before she knew it, tears were spilling over the edges of her eyelids. She was right back where she started… and once again, Stark was to blame. For a minute, there… she had trusted the man.

“I’m not as inhuman as Mr. Ross tries to paint me, dear,” Dr. Matsumoto sighed, laying his clipboard flat over his lap, “…but do try to remember if you’re forgetting any certain details. They want me to begin surgical testing, examination, and biopsy soon. I’d like to get to the bottom of your gift without cutting through your skull.”

Wanda wanted to laugh—this was no gift.

Interrogation intensified with each passing day. They wanted to know where Rogers and Barnes were. Those were details that not even a clairvoyant witchling in a straitjacket could tell them. She made this clear to them in the few times she broke her silence in an interrogation room.

“Rogers will make himself known when he arrives. Ask him then.” Wanda stated.

Amos didn’t hesitate to remind her of one painful detail, “Don’t think for a second you would even be safer out there, out after a jailbreak, little witch.”

Amos and Ross and two other guards behind her had a way of burning straight through her very soul with their eyes alone. Under stark lighting, every time she blinked, she saw each of them in double for a moment’s breath. She was dizzy, hungry, exhausted, and nauseated, always. 

“You think you’ve got it so bad in here, princess,” Ross said, smirking, “…out there, you know what they say about you? You, who went against the United States government with hands soaked in the blood of Lagos and Sokovia? They say you’re lucky they can’t run into you in the streets. They say they’d like to tie you up and burn you at the stake like the witch you are. Before you bring your curse onto American soil.”

Wanda shut her eyes, she felt vertigo again. She swallowed bile.

“You know what they call you?” Ross continued.

“What do they call me?” Wanda humored Ross, if only to hurry along this unwanted conversation.

“They call you a blood-stained witch. The Scarlet Witch.”

Wanda feigned a weak scoff, “I like it.”

“You like it?” Ross beamed at her with a nod. He gestured to one of the guards behind her. Wanda tensed.

“Well, then, Scarlet Witch, where are they? Rogers and Barnes. Where were they headed, where were they in such a goddamn hurry to that they would so happily just leave you and everyone else behind?”

“It’s as I said before, Mr. Ross. Even if I knew, you couldn’t pry the answer from my cold, dead body.”

“Don’t think accidents can’t be arranged.” Ross answered with a snap of his fingers.

She felt thick, gloved fingers grip her hair and Wanda screamed. It was cut short when the nose and forehead were thrust into the surface of the table. Tasting blood, Wanda collapsed onto her side, stumbling out of the chair.

With her body still wound up in the jacket, Wanda could only curl into a pathetic, sore heap. She heard boots shuffling on the floor around her, heard the clicks of their guns taking aim. Wanda screamed again, this time in fury at how helpless her tightly bound arms left her. No scarlet lights, no throwing chairs across the room into some damnable fool’s face, nothing.

There had to be something she could do, even without her hands.

Something.

Two of the guards lurched forward and dropped to their knees in sudden groans and cries. They clutched their skulls and quaked under the fury rising inside of Wanda’s mind. For a short, miserable moments, they would feel the ache and blood swelling in her nose and the rattling pain in her bruised forehead.

“Don’t get _too_ upset, darling,” Ross said, eying the decommissioned soldiers, “Like I said, it was an accident.”

Ross was too far away. He was just a few steps too far away without the curl of her fingertips to guide the scarlet lights she’d not seen in days. Without her hands, her powers were still there, but confined and weak.

One of the two soldiers tore off his helmet and blood streamed from his untouched nose. It dripped over his lips just like Wanda’s blood trickled past her own. The other soldier gripped Wanda’s hair again, “…knock it off, witch!”

“At ease, boys,” Ross said, stopping the man shy of throwing Wanda back into the nearest hard surface. Wanda winced and her concentration broke just enough to release the bleeding man from her focus.

“Take her back to her cell. I want to get the collar out and give it a test run.”

Wanda was dragged to her feet, her hair finally released.

“Get medical on that pretty face of hers, this isn’t Guantanamo.” Ross said.

Lead back to her cell, the bindings were tightened and when she saw a steel case being rolled toward her with medical’s white and blue coats, she felt dread—dread, crashing over like an avalanche. If only because, suddenly, she could feel a very loud, shared feeling amongst the guards buckling her into straps against the wall. _Safety_. _Their_ safety, specifically.

A sense that each of their common fears of her were suddenly melting away at the knowledge that the collar was coming.

Whatever it was, it was meant to protect them and hurt her.

“Don’t think too much. It’s going to hurt.” One of the medical staff said, fastening the collar around her neck.

Wanda’s fear and subsequent struggle were admittedly a waste of energy and strain. But the thrashing and screaming that followed were reflexive, instinctual. The heavy, cold machine they clasped around her neck had a low hum to it that carved a deep, black cavity through her mind.

Ross stepped delicately around the scene, watching from the safety of several meters away, between two armed guards.

“Go ahead and set it to ten. No need to take any chances.”

“Brainwave sensitivity set to ten.” An aide said, adjusting switches on the monstrous device.

The low hum became a deafening electric pulse that only Wanda could hear. She screamed and she kicked and they held her down. Her mind was a roaring red storm locked inside the confines of her skull. The storm was desperate to reach out and tear into their bodies with scarlet tendrils. Now, however, the more she thought of it—or anything—the more that pulse tore through the red lights like an obsidian machete cutting through a forest. Each branch bled.

The pain went away when her mind cleared for a single breath, and then lashing out again, with more rage than before, that pulse came back with a flood of agony that finally, blessedly, drowned her out of consciousness.

It would be several days before she learned how to control the involuntary subtleties of her mind that she had never noticed until the collar enlightened her to them.

Several days and twelve instances of being agitated and deafened and electrocuted to the point of losing consciousness, only to wake up again by the collar’s burning charge.

Focus. _Focus._

Dreams came and went.

Memories intermingled with her imagination in the same way drops of blood spiral into little red clouds when spilled upon water’s calm surface.

Memories of Pietro, the way he stood sentinel between her and angry— _frightened_ —waifs in their orphanage.

 _“Spaliti veštice,”_ she recalled the voice of the first child who said it.

Wanda had clung to her brother, hiding in his shadow as he yelled back at them—they were ignorant, they were fools, they were wrong about the curse and ill-luck filling the orphanage. They were wrong, Pietro argued, wrong about Wanda—Wanda was not the cause of everyone’s bad luck.

 _“Spaliti veštice!”_ Another child had chimed in, and then another, and two more. Chanting. Throwing dolls, books, crayons. Pietro shielded her. The corner of a heavy book had struck her in the eye.

In and out of consciousness, she recalled the last moment she heard Clint’s voice, yelling, along with Sam and Lang’s. Wanda wasn’t sure why they were yelling—she only recalled waking up form a nightmare in a great torrent of pain.

“Get that thing off of her goddammit!” Sam’s voice.

There was a guard on the ground before her cell, seizing. Had she done that in her sleep? It didn’t matter in that moment—not with the surge and pulse of electricity burning through her body and tearing her muscles apart by their very fibers. She didn’t realize she was screaming.

“You’re going to fucking kill her!” Lang’s voice.

“Wanda!” That was Clint’s voice, she was sure of it.

She heard the baton banging against someone’s cell. Then the shrill screech, then silence.

The day before she woke up in a different cell block, she glimpsed Ross standing in front of her cell, watching her. She was shocked again when her reflex beckoned her to listen to his thoughts. More screeching in her exhausted, throbbing brain followed, drowning out any of his thoughts she may have picked up on. Wanda heard him exhale long and slow through his nostrils. Ross narrowed his eyes at her.

“Of all the monsters in this cage, I think you may be my favorite.”

“Take this off… please,” Wanda had begged, voice hoarse from days of screaming, “…god, please, please take this off.”

Ross shook his head, “Take comfort in knowing there’s a place in hell for whatever made you. We’re all safer this way. With you like this.”

Wanda may have cried, had she not felt dehydrated and slight. It was of more comfort to just fall back into empty unconsciousness than to even swallow the bland, grey food they brought her.

That was the last she saw of Ross before she was taken to a cell block far from the others. Her space was half the size of the previous cell. It did not matter. She was now bound against the wall by the straps of the straitjacket. Wanda was not even allowed the comfort of laying down to sleep. All she could do was hang, slump over when fatigue finally took her into sleep.

The collar felt like fire when too many thoughts sprang up in her mind.

A slow, electric burn, from the inside out.

Wanda’s only solace came from the dreams she managed when she slept. Dreams quiet enough not to trip the collar and wake her to a storm of electrocution.

Dreams melted into nightmares, but even in nightmares, she dreamt with a metaphorical hand clamped over her mouth as not to wake the electric beast around her neck.

In her nightmares she saw fire and the light of rockets over Sokovia, of dirt and concrete and dust.

In her dreams, she felt Pietro’s hand clasped tight around her own, heard him whisper to her, _“It will be alright, stay with me, Wanda.”_

In her nightmares she saw books being flung through the air at her and her brother. Children shouting in their native tongue. Pietro’s arms wrapped protectively around her, standing between she and their peers, as he told her, _“It will be alright, stay behind me, Wanda.”_

 _“Spaliti veštice! Spaliti veštice!”_ The children in her memory sang.

The monotony of this persistent nightmare went uninterrupted for an indeterminate amount of time. Wanda lost track of days and stopped thinking in terms of time. Nobody was coming for her. Not Steve. Not Pietro. Not Vision.

When the Raft broke the ocean’s surface, it was a stomach-sinking motion that everyone felt and braced themselves for when the alarms blared. Wanda stirred from her self-imposed conscious void with curiosity. She overheard a guard at the end of her cell block mention a certain “guest” had arrived. A certain “Mr. Stark” he said.

Stark.

A thought crossed her mind, perhaps the only thing keeping her from spiraling into a vortex of rage at the knowledge of Stark’s presence. A crimson thought with ornate blue eyes—Vision in all his serenity, perhaps was he there with Stark, at Stark’s side?

Vision had said nothing at that airport. He looked away when cold cuffs locked around Wanda’s wrists and she was shuffled into an armored vehicle separate from Lang, Clint, and Sam. She had thought, just maybe, just by some crazy stroke of… something, that Vision may have fought for her with his words. That was how Vision fought best, she knew, with his words, his logic, his reason.

But Vision stood beside Tony in some apologetic silence. No logic or reason could have defended her, it seemed.

Did the apology from Schkeuditz still stand? Wanda wondered, but concluded that it was in his nature to follow orders. To comply to the will of absolute order. Another prick of the knife that was anger, starting at the apex of her torso, dragged down in a scarlet line to her very core.

Stark was in and out of the facility. It was not a long visit.

Had her powers not been stifled by her effort to remain a mental void, Wanda may have tried to listen in on his thoughts. It was too exhausting to keep enduring the collar’s fury, however. When Stark’s presence was gone, the Raft’s alarms blared again and Wanda drew in a queasy breath. Back below the Atlantic they went.

Back into darkness she went, into restless sleep and that hallucinogenic cocktail of light dreams and heavy nightmares.

She dreamt about the cold forest in the Sokovian mountains. At least, Wanda assumed, that must have been the source of those images. Surely, it was some childhood memory that brought the scent of damp soil and mildewed wood to her mind. Surely, it was a memory of autumn, when the last gold and scarlet leaves were falling and only evergreens in the hills kept their needles.

Wanda began to dream of a woman in red walking along overgrown paths in the mist, tracing her fingertips along the bark of certain trees. Paths that forked every few meters, and knowingly, the woman in red walked until she became further and further away from Wanda.

Finally, she was a dim shadow in the fog.

Then, she was gone.

Only Wanda remained in the words, at a forked path. Her breaths crossed her lips in cloudy white puffs. She heard only her breaths. There was no wind to rustle the leaves and branches in the canopy overhead. Above her, the sky was obscured by a veil of mist.

Wanda eyed these two paths. Where did the woman in red go?

_“Surely there is no evil imaginable to compare, with the cruelty of that cold sun in the cold air. And that enormous night, like the first chaos of things,”_

Seeing that woman in red, Wanda was oddly reminded of Vision’s voice, reciting passages from a certain book of poems, many, many months ago.

A gold glint flashed in the corner of her eye, striking for her attention against the scenery of the woods in greyscale.

She thought it a snake at first, moving under the brush toward a northward trail.

Despite tired eyes fixing on that odd flash of color, her mind was elsewhere, slipping into the realm of memory. In this memory, she had listened to beautiful words woven by a beautiful voice. Curious about him, all those months ago, Wanda had taken a seat in the lounge beside Vision, her dizzy bravery fueled by red wine.

Vision’s voice was echoing in her mind, reciting hypnotic poetry, _“I envy the very animals, to whom slumber brings…”_

She remembered watching Vision’s eyes, ornate, blue scanning over each letter as he read to her aloud, _“Over and over the gift of being thoughtless and blind,”_

In those gray, infinite woods, Wanda neared the source of the sunny gleam in the soil. There, Wanda found a single black and gold vine, littered with thorns.

A single color, stark against a monochrome world.

_“So slowly does the thread of these dark years unwind.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, hopefully I didn't butcher that Bosnian too badly. A lot of theories about Sokovia floating around tumblr (as well as the cryllic lettering on the signs) suggest that Sokovia is based more on Serbia and the surrounding region—so the language would likely be a hybrid of the major languages of the real-world region. Bosnian, Serbian, Croatian. If any readers are familiar with those languages and see that I've butchered it, don't be afraid to call me out, I'd be overly happy to to edit/correct it. 
> 
> What actually happened in chapter one, though? Well, to explain it, we gotta rewind back to the Raft.
> 
> It wasn't a good time for Wanda.
> 
> Thank you for reading guys! Next art and update lands on July 14th.


	3. The Eclipsed Star, in Half-Light

“That’s very beautiful. I never cared much for poetry, but… you make it sound alright. Not so boring.”

Wanda’s smile was still vivid in his mind. It was rare that she smiled, back in their first shared summer on the cerulean planet Earth. Mourning the recent death of her brother, Wanda often self-medicated with wine and silence. She looked at him in those early, sweltering summer days with some kind of disregard, but he decided, perhaps it was the just desserts of an unrequested savior.

In the beginning, he was certain that she hated him.

Even when she smiled at him, that first time, there was an underlying shadow of mistrust. She regarded everyone with the same forced half-smiles. Wanda’s brother, Pietro Maximoff, was gone, and with him died the last shred of trust she held for the world around her.

July of two-thousand and fifteen, he recalled, the second day.

The first time he found himself alone in the facility with only Wanda as his company.

Wanda had not spoken to him since Novi Grad, not until that moment. Bored, it looked like, she had sauntered into the lounge and took a seat beside him, a bottle of red wine in one hand and a glaze over her eyes that explained why half the bottle was already gone.

She had brought two glasses. Offered him one. Vision shook his head and resumed indulging in his own growing interests, “Thank you, but no thanks. I do not eat or drink.”

Her cerise lips had straightened, slightly sullen, as she downed the contents of the second glass and poured the remaining wine into her own.

“Read another?”

Compliance was reflex for Vision—it was agreeable.

Oh, what would entertain?

Letting the pages sift across his thumb until he stopped on a random page, Vision answered, “As I see it or as you would hear it?”

Wanda furrowed her brow and after a pause, said, “…as you see it, I guess?”

She took another drink.

There did not seem to be venom in her eyes on this particular evening. Uncharacteristic, but pleasant. He preferred this Wanda.

“Le soleil s'est couvert d'un crêpe. Comme lui, Ô Lune de ma vie, emmitoufle-toi d'ombre,” Vision spoke.

“Wait, are you reading that in… okay, go back, go back. As I would hear it, then,” Wanda laughed, “…I liked what I heard.”

She liked what she heard.

Vision felt a want to take a breath. Interest. Interest was _interesting_. A _nice_ feeling.

His eyes shifted up past the pages and to Wanda. She wore a black dress under a black hooded jacket. Tall black stockings that hugged the thighs she had curled under an hourglass body across from him on the lounge. One head tilted slightly to the side, carotid exposed. Irrelevant details.

He continued, in English, “Sleep or smoke, as you will, in silence, somber. And plunge your whole being into the abyss of Ennui.”

She was still listening, clear eyes bright and waiting for the next verse.

Continuing, Vision recited, “I love you thus. However, if you wish, like a star eclipsed in half-light, to flaunt in the places which madness encumbers, that is fine. Charming dagger, spring from your sheathe.”

Her lips were pink and slightly parted, with the subtle stain of red wine upon the swell of soft flesh. Vision realized, then, that he had never before paid much attention to the shape or color of human lips prior to that moment.

“Illuminate your eyes from chandeliers of glass. Illuminate desires of the louts that pass. I thrill before you, morbid or petulant.”

Vision heard her breath in a soft, sleepy sigh. Her lids were growing heavy as she leaned comfortably into the cushions of her seat and eyed him in what he could only describe as a gaze. It was penetrating—and he had wondered, then, if she was peering into his mind again, the way she often did to those around her. What would she see there?

“Be what you will, black night, red dawn, there is no fiber in the whole of my trembling body which does not cry, my beloved Beelzebub, I adore you!”

She remained to hear another three poems, before she slipped into a comfortable wine dream. They shared no other words between the moment she arrived and the moment he returned her slumbering body to her bed. No reference was ever made to it in the following days. None was expected—although in hindsight, perhaps some proof of that moment’s existence was desired.

A little over three-hundred and sixty days followed, as they would.

Just as Vision’s second summer in the north-western hemisphere of one, cerulean planet Earth, would follow.

The aftermath of Schkeuditz was a surreal sort of blur. There was a distinct sheen of ennui enveloping the empty corridors of the Avengers facility, thickest over the doors leading into dwellings, _bedrooms_ , of Avengers which Hill mentioned only once, “…they won’t be coming back.”

Vision still found a good many human emotions new and confusing, but he realized that he may have felt his first brush with some mild form of denial during those twenty-one days. The sense that, surely, they would be there one day. Logic was escaping him as of late.

Tony had commented on it, as expected. Natasha had returned with them, in silence, but left as quietly as she had arrived. Rhodes would not return for approximately thirty-seven more days.

Former S.H.I.E.L.D. staff that continued to operate in the Avengers facility answered to Miss Hill, who decided clearly that the former members were now criminals and that their possessions were to be put in storage. A subtle intonation in her voice made Vision imagine these personal effects were to wind up in the incinerator—he was fast learning about the subtleties of human language, where a phrase, in the literal sense, meant one result, versus another phrase, in abstract, meant another.

There was a concern that Rogers or Sam would return and find their belongings gone—displeasure—but Hill assured him, “…they won’t be coming back.”

They won’t be coming back.

His first brush with denial was the inability—the _refusal_ —to process this statement fully.

Six days into the social drought, he glimpsed a small figure dipping into Wanda Maximoff’s room and felt something inside of him light up. Hope. Phasing through the wall, he expected to hear her exasperated voice, “Viz! You keep doing this, we talked about you doing this!” and throwing a pillow in his direction, “Use the door!”

But no such welcome followed.

It was a short and slender staff member who was labeling the boxed belongings of Miss Maximoff. Vision had not stepped into the room recently—it was so barren now. He felt something inside his core that he did not yet have adequate words to describe. A chasm in the earth was an image that came to mind.

Empty, vast, _cold_.

No warmth in the room which once homed Miss Maximoff strumming away at a now-absent guitar.

“Oh!” The woman gasped, an item slipping from her grasp. The sound of porcelain cracking on a hard floor drew Vision’s attention away from the empty place where Wanda’s guitar had been seated.

The woman turned to face a doll that had landed head-first after a tragic tumble off of a shelf. When her eyes fixed on Vision, she was taken aback. In an instant, she regathered her wits and apologized.

“Sorry, Sir. I did not see you come in.”

“Miss Maximoff’s doll.”

“I… yes, I’m sorry. I tried to catch it.”

Vision phased over to the woman and to the broken doll. He knelt down, turning the doll in its plaid dress in his hands. The painted face fell apart. The woman had made to start picking up the pieces, but Vision was already on this task.

“Let me, it’s kind of my job to—”

Vision interrupted, curt, “Leave.”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“Leave.” Repeating himself, Vision stopped gathering small shards of porcelain and looked up at her.

“Right. Of course. I’ll just… step outside.”

Vision picked up a shard of porcelain that had once been the doll’s pink cheek.

He recalled the day Wanda brought the thing back in its red dress, cradled in her arms. Vivid in his mind was Wanda’s smile as one of her long, dainty fingers wrapped through the doll’s brown spiral curls.

“My god, that is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Tony had said, standing at the kitchen bar.

Wanda’s lips had curled in a playful smirk as she bent her fingers and let the doll rise into the air on scarlet waves.

Levitating the doll with her mind, Wanda said, “Oh, I can show you _much_ creepier, Mr. Stark.”

Stark’s jaw had dropped slowly.

Sam, who had been standing beside Wanda as they entered the lounge, suddenly bolted away from the girl, muttering, “Nope! Nope! I’m out! I fold! Don’t you float that creepy-ass doll near me, kid, don’t you even!”

Vision could not understand why half of the team was so startled by Wanda and the doll she had apparently found in a downtown thrift store.

“She’s kind of cute, isn’t she?” Wanda tilted her head to the side. She turned her hypnotic gaze on Vision, who stood beside a visibly uncomfortable Tony. Vision did not know how to react to Wanda back then. She rarely addressed him, much less looked at him in the first weeks after the battle of Sokovia.

Vision had waited too long to respond and as quickly as it had come, Wanda’s attention and gaze on him were gone, back on Tony. Regret.

“Cute, like Rosemary’s baby cute or…?” Tony shuddered, “…alright, okay. Wanda, come on, seriously. No Satanic dolls or rituals in the tree house!”

“I do not detect any form of threat coming from the doll, Sir.” Vision had said.

Tony looked at him and back at the doll and the happy little red sorceress guiding it into the air.

“Nat, I’m gonna need you to call a young priest and an old priest.” Tony said.

The doll passed dangerously close by Natasha’s shoulder and a visible chill rattled the woman.

“…oh my god. Alright, I’m going, too.” Natasha finally conceded, rising from her seat and leaving the lounge behind Sam. This was when Wanda started guiding the doll in a slow, straight path toward Tony and Vision, exactly one and a half meters above the floor, unwavering.

Vision heard a sound that, from that point forward, had a way of echoing in his mind—Wanda’s soft laughter. A faint giggle. Reflexively, he drew in a breath, although he did not ever recall needing to breathe in the past. He straightened as the doll approached them and Wanda’s amusement increased. Tony took a step back, his back bumping against the sink.

Why was everyone so afraid of a harmless doll? Vision never did get an answer to this. Curious, he reached out to it.

Wanda turned it toward him—cue a yelp from Tony and, “Oh, god! Nope!”

Her puppetry was rather entrancing.

“Wow! Okay, I’m out and I’m calling an exorcist, Wanda!”

Tony nearly walked into Rhodes, who was hurrying into the kitchen, “Where is it? I gotta see this demon doll, where—oh, _hell_ , oh _heck_ , no way.”

All of nearly stumbling into Tony—“Move. Move. Can you? Can you, yes, thanks, alright, seriously, Rhodey, that thing’s making me real nervous. I don’t do well with demons.”—Rhodes made a quick about-face and left without even entering the kitchen or the lounge. Their voices echoed in the hall, Rhodes laughing, “Wow. No. Hell no.”

Vision took the doll into his hands and it did not feel any lighter than it seemed. He turned it around, observing in curiosity but there did not seem to be any particular weapon or device of measurable threat on the thing.

He looked up at Wanda, concerned.

“Why is everyone afraid of it?”

Wanda, still grinning, gave a shrug, “I couldn’t tell you. She’s not scary at all. She looked lonely at the store. So I brought her home with me.”

Vision looked at the doll again and asked, “Does it have feelings? I do not detect any biological function within it that would allow for conscious psychological reaction, no less any form of sentience.”

Wanda crossed over to him and held her arms out. Vision looked at her and then at the doll.

“Can you hand her back to me? Be gentle, she’s delicate.”

“O-of course, yes.” Vision stammered and placed the doll carefully in her arms. He realized after a second too long that his own gaze lingered on Wanda and the sort of smile he had never seen on her face prior.

“I think I’ll name her Ana.” Wanda declared.

“Ana. Oh yes, that… that is a nice name.”

Wanda took the doll without much further acknowledgment of the synthetic man and made way for her room with a certain skip to her step that was as rare as a blue moon.

Ten months followed since that day.

Ana was in pieces in Vision’s hands.

Wanda was gone.

Rhodes was in a hospital.

Tony was overindulging in alcohol.

Natasha was but a shadow that moved in and out of the facility, as they say, _like a ghost_. Her presence was temporary—she soon went from _ghost_ to _memory_.

Sam and Clint were prisoners in an undisclosed prison beneath the Atlantic Ocean, with Wanda.

Vision carried the broken doll out of Wanda’s room, through a silent corridor that once held the voices of the only family he had known—all of which, now gone.

Hill had tried to reassure Vision, “They’re criminals, now. They won’t be coming back.”

Criminals, now.

They won’t be coming back.

Vision placed the doll on a table in his own stark, unfurnished room. The fragments of the doll’s broken cranium were aligned in a working order beside it.

Vision repeated Hill’s words, “They won’t be coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully quite soon, I can change updates from every two weeks to once a week! Just need to finish a few more chapter art pieces—I'll keep you guys posted! As always, thank you for reading!


	4. The Golden Vine in the Hinterland Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her meditation to escape the suffering induced by the collar, Wanda discovers a place that only she can reach. Is it a slow descent into madness, or something real?

Dreamscapes were inherently surreal and nonsensical. Chaotic structures and broken rules of physics that would have left Wanda lost in vertigo had the Raft not hardened her to the sensation. Wooded paths that stretched infinitely onward sometimes dropped off into absolute grey and mist. But turning around, Wanda often found an entirely new path. She watched the ground for the gold vine and its thorns. The metal, half-buried in black soil, was always warm to the touch.

Occasionally she would follow it off the path until she heard footsteps echoing up the trail. A reddish shadow in the distance reminded her of what she had first sought to pursue.

Wanda lost the woman again, after several (perceived) hours of intermittent pursuit.

She awoke before she could catch another glimpse of either the woman or the gold vine.

Back to the bars in front of her and back to the tightening hold of her restraints.

If the rocking sway of seasickness could be acclimated to, if the dull acceptance of underwater tomorrows could be apathetically accepted, there was one thing that Wanda never adapted to. Those restraints. Those damn restraints. The red pulse that lit up the darkness in time with its own evil, mechanical heartbeat.

The glass between her face and the bars was always too clear to catch her reflection in. However, she saw the crimson light shining on it from the collar. She saw only that before her eyes in the darkness of the lights going out at regular intervals for power conservation. Wanda watched that red light as the straitjacket suffocated her and seemed to always, forever, tighten on its own just a little more with every breath.

On stormy days, Wanda could hear the crash and churn of the Atlantic around them. It brought memories to mind of warzone explosions overhead, of concrete and steel bending and settling over she and Pietro.

That flickering red light was a clear call back to her memory of that missile she and Pietro were trapped in front of. That missile with the first English words that would forever be burned into her mind, illuminated under its systematic red pulse—words that read, _Stark Industries_.

A tiny red dot, flashing in and out of existence, each pulse having the potential to be the last.

Wanda shut her eyes.

Through her eyelids, that illuminating pulse still haunted her.

Go back to sleep.

Insomnia would keep her awake to the tune of the collar’s electric moan for sixteen hours. Only then was she mercifully spared a moment of sleep. Her only waking thought had been of that monochromatic forest with its occasional ruby and amber leaves and that scarlet silhouette forever in the distance ahead of her. Her curiosity was bidding her to follow the gold vine and its thorns.

“Are you lost, child?”

Wanda was almost startled out of her dream when she heard the voice. Bolting around, she spied an older woman, standing with a distinct air of rigid and unshakeable nobility. The woman did not look concerned as much as she looked inconvenienced by Wanda’s presence.

Shaking her head, Wanda opened her mouth to answer, but found no words followed. Heat burned around her throat in the shape of that collar. Wanda’s bloody fingertips rose up to her voiceless throat. It hadn’t occurred to her until then that she could not speak, even in her own damned dream without the collar’s interruption.

Raising an eyebrow, the woman looked her up and down before taking slow steps toward her. In two wrinkled, skinny hands she held thick Victorian skirts, though the ends trailed dirty through black earth and rusty leaves.

“You’re muted by something. Here, speak up now, girl, what brings you here?” The woman placed one long finger over the center of Wanda’s clavicle. A sudden wash of warmth fell over Wanda. Color spread slowly from the woman’s fingertips, across Wanda’s body, across the woman’s body and her maroon dress, and across autumn-hued plants and trees. Even the sky took on a distinct orange glow from somewhere beyond the overcast cloud cover.

“I don’t have all day.” The woman said.

“I-I don’t know. I did not think myself lost. Only dreaming.”

“Dreaming.” The woman repeated, with a smirk, “Child, do you know where you are?”

“Asleep. Asleep in the ocean. Waiting to die.”

Silence fell over the woman before she shook her head, short white curls swaying, “No, no, child, do not say such things. This is a sacred place. This is the Witches Road. There will be no invitation for death here. Death cannot touch us here. This is our oldest home. Do you not know of this, witchling?”

What a dream this was.

“You truly are lost here,” the woman said, before gesturing east, “…if you follow the eastern paths, you’ll find a lake. At the heart of that lake, you will see a chapel. Just as it is in the world of man. Go there and take a moment in the sanctuary. Perhaps you may find what you are looking for.”

“I… don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“A way out?”

Wanda shook her head, “I would like to stay here. It is better here than out there.”

The woman’s blue eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“I see,” The woman said, solemn, “Should we meet again, witchling, I pray some solace has found you.”

“…thank you.”

“Wanda?” Came a distinctly male voice, from somewhere beyond the horizon of this woodland world.

A voice, distinctly familiar, echoed through her head. Wanda looked for the source of the voice—Steve’s voice. Clearly hearing it as well, the old woman’s eyes moved upward. She pulled away and made back to her original path. Wanda wanted to thank her, but another echo of Steve’s voice all but blackened her sight.

“Wanda, Wanda, wake up…”

When she blinked again, her eyes opened to the sight of Steve’s face. He was nearly shoved aside by Clint whose arms were instantly around her, his features wrenched into a pained smile.

“Wanda! Oh, god, Wanda, kid, hang in there, we’re gonna get this damn thing off, I swear.” Clint said.

Turning slightly, Wanda saw Sam on Steve’s other arm. The three of them were unclasping the jacket and pulling her gently down from her suspended prison.

“You’re gonna be alright, we’re getting the hell out of here.”

Poking his head over Steve’s shoulder from somewhere in the back, she saw Lang, “Hey, hey, hold tight, alright, I’m getting that thing off of you.”

She faded in and out, suddenly weightless in all of their arms, moved by a rush of blood as her arms were made to finally breathe. Weak, her head slipped to the side, trying not to think a single thought in response, lest the collar send a charge through her and anyone touching her.

Her gaze fixed on the straitjacket that Sam threw aside with visible disgust.

“Alright, don’t think yet, keep it zen,” Lang said, his hands moving over the row of switches and buttons at the collar’s edge. She squeezed her eyes shut as his hands moved over the collar’s puzzle lock.

“Third left. Second right. First right. Fourth left. First left. Repeat.” Wanda whispered, remembering the passcode movement of that one merciful aide’s fingers the last time they had cautiously taken the collar off and then replaced it with a lower sensitivity setting.

“Third left, third… wait, say that again?”

“Christ, man, just get it off her!” Clint barked.

Lang managed to get the thing off and Wanda felt only another rush of blood to the head when Steve picked her up. She was out cold, again. The last thing she remembered was the wetness of tears on her cheeks. She saw Steve’s face, he was telling someone something, giving orders as he always did. Holding the world together with his words. She could not hear his words, but whatever they were, they were taking her and everyone else to safety.

“An early July boy. So that makes you a Cancer,” Wanda had once told him, back in the Avengers facility many months before.

He had nodded and smiled, as she added, “…you care about your family. Keeping your loved ones close is your utmost priority, even if you have to go against your own convictions to keep it so. A moon child, more sensitive than you let on. Every pain your loved ones feel, you feel as if you were bound to them, psychically. From your time of birth, it looks like you have an Ascendant Cancer with your Moon in Pisces. Your heart bleeds for dreams too easily, Steve. Guard it.”

“I guard it as I guard my family, Miss Maximoff.” He had said.

He was not lying.

In dreams, Wanda had followed the eastward trails just as the elderly woman had instructed. In time, they did seem to lead somewhere. A clearing followed, and then a black lake as vast as the ocean. In the distant horizon, she saw an island and she saw the silhouette of a bell tower in the fog.

At her feet, half-buried in soil damp from the lake’s sloshing tide, Wanda saw that gold vine.

Was that vine tearing through the lake and stretching out for that church in the distance? And just how was she supposed to get there? Wanda eyed the rolling black waves and wondered if she could swim without growing tired in a dream. Could she die in a dream? In this place? Could she drown?

One thing she did know, however, was that she had to get there and she had to find out what this place was.

In an instant, she heard rushing footsteps shuffling on soil, behind her, at her.

When she turned, she saw only a blurred, dark figure bringing down some blunt beam down on her. Her skull lit up in agony. She dropped to the ground, sight spinning, unable to fix on the darkened specter looking down at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! I think I've decided that two weeks between each chapter is a real pain and I'm gonna go ahead and just update weekly! Every Thursday it is, now, guys!


	5. The Causality Between Reality and Dream

There was a certain place in the lounge where the windows looked out upon hills thick with green trees. Wanda had once stood at that particular spot by the window for a notable period of time. That place was empty now, given that Wanda and the other members of their small, once-family, were decidedly _not_ coming back.

Vision filled that place, out of curiosity.

What was it that she saw, he wondered?

The horizon, the hills, the trees that would go scarlet and gold when the months of autumn rolled in. Summer was ending, and autumn was looming on the horizon. Vision saw a heavy fleet of dark clouds sailing overhead, thick with rain and storm—Wanda stood in this very place, taking in the sight of autumn storms with mesmerized glee in her crescent moon smile.

That was when Vision noticed a particular crack in the window—small. A single gossamer thread against clear glass that would, to any uninterested human eyes, go unnoticed.

“Vision?” Hill’s voice came over the comm.

Vision was pulled from his reverie, “Miss Hill.”

“We’ve got a situation at the Raft. We need someone to alert Tony to this right away. He’s not answering his comm. He’s not answering calls. Chances are he’s locked himself in his office again. I figure you’re our best bet to keep the grape vine going.”

“Understood. And are there further details you would have me relay to Mr. Stark?”

“The Raft’s been breached.” Hill explained this and there was a spark of something inside of Vision he was not sure how to describe—it was decidedly irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Hill continued, “An infiltrator who fits the description of a certain Steve Rogers was captured on what little video feed we got back. Most of it got hacked, but whoever did it missed some spots. We’ve got enough of a lead to confirm that… our former agent is behind this. A jailbreak, of only a certain four inmates. Premeditated, with help from an unknown source. It’s pretty important right now that Tony not stick his head in the sand.”

“I will relay the information.”

No longer did Vision have the sort of naiveté that would lead to a false sense of hope from this news—no, the news only brought him a sense of dread.

Dread that the conflict was only going to continue.

Tony was drumming his fingertips on his desk with one hand, and squeezing a rubber stress ball in the other. Staring out the window with a blank expression, he was going on fifteen minutes of redirecting the calls of a certain Thaddeus Ross to hold. An untouched cell phone sat atop a torn-open parcel and a letter he had now read seven times was strewn over his desktop keyboard.

Vision phased in through the floor to find Tony like this on the seventy-second day post-Schkeuditz.

“Sir?”

Tony did not turn his gaze from the window and the slate clouds covering the sky. Voice soft, he replied, “Our first mission as the new Avengers squad and it’s finding and bringing our former teammates back into incarceration. Go fucking figure.”

Straightening his mouth in a solemn expression, Tony shook his head. He dropped the stress ball back into its home atop his desk and sighed, “What is it, Viz? If it’s Ross, I’m aware he’s trying to contact me. And I’m aware of what he’s trying to contact me over. He’ll have to pardon me, I’m kind of procrastinating the end of our happy little world as we know it.”

End of a small world. That thought struck a note within him, but curiously, that note faded just as fast as it had rung out. An entrancing turn of phrase, he decided. But a train of thought that was ultimately of no consequence.

“Shall we pursue them?”

“Is that what you think we should do, Viz? Follow orders and expectations?” Tony wore a faint shadow of a smile, still fixed on a certain cloud in the distance, “You know, I had a dream the other night. That Pepper came back. I was, uh, I was in Malibu. I was there, alone, and Pepper, she came back. She came back like nothing was ever wrong, like I hadn’t colossally fucked things up like I always do. I thought that for a minute, that dream was the real world and this whole nightmare’s just been, well, just that. Just a bad dream. That when the weekend with Pepper ended, I’d come back here, and she would answer when I called.”

Tony’s fingertips resumed quiet drumming again. The phone rang again. Tony hit the speakerphone button and said quickly, “One sec, Ross, I’m reading my horoscope,” before putting the man back on hold. The machine’s button blinked a yellow intermittent pulse.

“Except, you know, that’s not what happened at all. I told her I was coming back here, and she got real mad at me, just like she always does. She said, _‘You’re an idiot, Tony, I’ve been gone for six months and you never even looked for me.’_ I mean, that’s what she said in the dream. I doubt she’d say that in real life, you know?”

Shrugging, Tony cast Vision a curious look and said, “…she never told me to reach out for her. Entirely the opposite, really. Now, look at this.”

Gesturing to the letter, the parcel ripped open upon his desk, Tony asked, “Is this some kind of sign from god or something? How literal can someone be when they say, _‘Hey, Tony, call me,’_ when they’re someone who does not want to be found? Does, does any of this make sense?”

There was certainly a degree of abstraction and certain parallels to the narrative of his dream and this reality before them, Vision decided. That phone was, as per Tony’s implication, a link to Rogers.

The only equation in Vision’s mind, however, was that a link to Rogers was a link to Wanda.

In a dream, Pepper had been angry with Tony for not seeking her out when she stated explicitly against re-establishing contact. In reality, Rogers was extending an olive branch, but was the subtext that his want for contact was better off ignored?

Wanda, ignored?

“This is what we do now, Viz, we follow orders. Signed our lives way. And boy, did I fuck it all up.”

Follow orders.

That was what he had come to him for, Vision realized, then, was for instruction. Orders. As per usual, he answered to Tony above anyone else. Perhaps an echo from another life, perhaps a small comfort in familiarity. No human seemed to open up to him as easily as Tony. Perhaps Tony still heard his voice and sought J.A.R.V.I.S.’s counsel. Tony’s “deceased” electronic assistant had sought orders. As per intended function. Vision often wondered if the traits he shared with his predecessor incited unpleasant feelings within Tony Stark—voice, mannerisms, compliance.

“Anyway, Viz, I’m sorry. Leave it to me to give a nice, long, angsty monologue about everything just to accomplish nothing. What was it you came to tell me?”

Vision feigned a pleasant expression and answered, “Clearly, it was nothing that you do not already know, Sir.”

Tony nodded, returning an equally feigned smile, “Figured as much. Sorry for unloading on you like that, Viz.”

“It’s quite alright.”

Tony picked up the phone and shifted it in his fingers for a moment before tossing it to Vision. It landed light in his palms.

“Viz, I want you to take this thing apart and tell me everything you can about it. I want traces of exterior material that could give ideas of where it’s been. I want the programming analyzed and if we get any incoming activity on it, let’s have it traced.”

“And so our orders to find them, in the context of escaped criminals, we follow these orders?” Vision asked.

“Heck no, Techno,” Tony answered, before shifting toward the blinking phone and pausing his finger just over the hold key. Before answering that call, Tony said to Vision, “Let nobody know we’re pursuing the source on this package. We follow the orders on the surface only. Everything beneath the surface. Well. As your unofficial father, it’s time I teach you something about ulterior motives.”

Personal motivation. Selfish action.

Vision had a creeping sense that he was already more familiar with this than Tony could have ever imagined.

Follow orders until they no longer benefit one’s personal goal.

Tony answered Ross’s call briefly, “Hey, Ross, I’m gonna have to call you back, I just—I’m a handsome, strapping young bachelor, you know, and I’ve got a date.”

“Stark, the Raft’s been comp—”

“Completed, yes, I was made aware of this about eight months ago, thanks for the reminder. Have a good one, I’ll send you guys a congratulatory fruit basket.”

The following days saw Vision preoccupied with analyzing both the phone from Rogers and even the letter Tony would hesitantly hand him on the second day of the analysis. Dusting for prints, analyzing the make of the device and the production location of its materials, all details were examined.

The phone itself pointed in other directions. Pieces from an identifiably eastern European manufacturer, a model common among sleeper agents laying low on the fringe of Europe and Asia. Rogers had undoubtedly scrubbed the thing of any prints or any traceable fibers.

The letter gave better clues—a cellulose-based parchment made of a pulp wood fiber. A wood that was identifiable as an equatorial African strain.

“Wakanda. My bets are on the cat guy.” Tony said, voice finally breaking the laboratory’s silence. Pausing for a beat, he then added, “…and so we keep tabs on them.”

“Keep tabs?” Vision repeated.

“Keep tabs. No need to run after them so fast. Let them lay low.” Tony shrugged, “Wakanda’s a sovereign nation. If they went with T’challa, there’s no doubt they’re seeking political asylum. If we give chase right after we pin their location, that alerts you-know-who to their location. What follows, Viz? We get orders.”

An understandably undesirable conclusion, Vision thought.

“But,” Tony said, one gloved hand moving over the disassembled phone, “…of the two of us remaining Avengers, I can name one man that can get in unnoticed.”

The implication was clear enough.

“Is that an order, Sir?”

Tony’s eyes shifted downward. He leaned back against a table behind him and folded his arms over his chest.

“Not sure I want to think about it that way. Funny how that works, isn’t it? That, my friend, is cognitive dissonance. I’m offering it to you as a choice.”

Tony was taking a sizeable risk. Moving his remaining rook into the Queen’s line of sight. But his fingers had not yet left the chess piece.

“See, I’m sure you can weigh out the risks here just like anyone else in the room.” Tony said—only the two of them were in the room—and dragging a palm over his tired face, he continued, “If they catch us staring, we get a pretty firm slap in the face. Not on the wrist, the face. Bitter exes, you know. Gonna be honest, we’d probably deserve that.”

“…you would lose your final line of defense.”

“I lose some of my only remaining friends.”

“Understandably, complications could follow in the event that my presence is detected in Wakanda. Complications of which the results could be far worse than we’ve yet tapped into. While you present this to me as a choice to make on my own, you and I are both aware of the fallout should the plans fail. I will do what is necessary to bring us all back together, Sir. However, the risks must be assessed in full.”

Feigning a smile, Tony nodded, “My question is… do _you_ think it’s worth it? The risks. The fallout. Heck, let’s get crazy and hypothesize going rogue and going back on everything we’ve done this far, Viz. Like, do you really want to go there, philosophically?”

“I understand pride prevents speculation.”

Tony gave Vision a sort of half-amused expression which was always difficult to decipher. That expression on Tony tended to mean the conversation was at a crossing—it could follow either positively or negatively.

“I’m handing it to you, Viz. Your call. Because you’re more clear-minded than me and if my track record tells me anything, it’s that I’m prone to mistakes when it regards people I love.”

Pursuit implied reunion. Reunion implied Wanda.

There was a very cold and clean divide between the options presented. Stay, await the actions of Rogers and listen from a distance for any voices in Wakanda. Risk hearing of their team’s other side only when a threat returns and lives are lost. Alternatively, he could go, take one’s own actions and listen from the shadows within Wakanda. Risk being caught and being punished for acting outside of executive operation.

Or simply, do not be caught.

Wanda came to mind, her back facing him as she stared silently out the window of the lounge. In these days, Wanda had become a beloved ghost who haunted his memories. She had enjoyed watching clouds and birds overhead on clear afternoons and she had enjoyed listening to acoustic music on the radio. He would watch her in silence for an indeterminate amount of time, many times. Watching Wanda in silence, unnoticed, he realized, was a sorely missed second nature to him by this point.

“Sleep on it. Sleep on it. We’ll figure this out after we’ve processed it a little better.”

That was what Tony had said.

Vision did not sleep. But he understood that the turn of phrase implied, _give it time_. Think over the full scope of these actions.

As a synthetic man—as what Miss Hill referred to as, “the android”—Vision did not mull over things through sleep. Only the conscious weighing of available options and the subsequent pursuit of what was most logical, the lesser of two evils—if only evils were presented.

For once, Vision opted not to meditate on this. It seemed that a natural _human_ reaction to loss was to react with denial. Escapism. Inherently, there was something that drew him toward the promise of escape, if only for a moment’s false clarity.

There was a device that Tony had created for himself and non-synthetic humans like himself. A device that created a holographic projection of memories harvested from the hippocampus by electromagnetic means.

“Try it, sometime,” Tony had joked, leaving it alone in its own laboratory in the days leading up to the MIT convention.

 _Try it sometime_ , he had joked, because Vision, an “android” scarcely a year old, would not have any lasting, sentimental memories in the short span of three-hundred and sixty-one days.

 _Try it sometime_ , Tony had joked, because Vision, “the android” would likely be all of systematically incompatible with such a device.

That evening, Vision found that he was, in fact, very much capable of using the device just as any human would. Synthetic hippocampus or not, it seemed that Stark’s memory-projection device found his memories to be real enough.

Wanda was projected in eidetic detail, her black dress, her black stockings reaching up just past her bony knees. Small wrists were hidden under long sleeves and slender fingers accented by chipped, black nail polish. She sat beside him, the scent of red wine on her lips—cabernet. Wanda always enjoyed cabernet. Lips that were curled in a soft smile, a rarity at the time, in those days of wonder, of newness, of that first summer that was an _android’s_ existence.

She sat beside him.

She had stepped into the lounge, with two glasses in one hand and a black bottle of rich wine in the other. He denied her offer—he was synthetic and he did not consume. The function to ingest was there, but the necessity was not.

In this memory, altered by Stark’s holographic projection, he eyed the glass and eyed her—strange as it was, Stark’s memory device could recount from his own mind that Wanda’s eyes took a particular silver glint in certain lights.  

This time, he would not drink, but he would accept a glass, at least. Talk to her, at least. Be unafraid.

In response, the machine created the imagined outcome of this altered choice.

Wanda grinned and poured the deep, red liquid into his glass. Her lips moved, as though she were speaking, but Vision did not catch distinct words crossing her lips.  

There was a gap in data transfer between what Stark’s device projected and what it drew from Vision’s own hippocampus. Too many alternatives, too many variables. He did not know what she would have talked about… only that she would have made light conversation. Of what subject, he could not say. Vision would not know what conversational pattern could have followed. Wanda was not a being of predictable outcome.

Wanda’s voice came from her hologram in disjointed sounds and glitched half-words, until her lips sealed in a smile and she looked up at him, quiet.

Tony had mentioned there were still wrinkles in the system to iron out. Vision’s mind seemed to press the system to try and pursue too many tangent outcomes at once. It was a wonder he didn’t induce a system crash, freezing time on the projection of Wanda’s smiling face.

The variant streams of holographic time soon unified back into the source material.

Her hologram was still, just smiling at him, her chest rising and falling with slow, _human_ breaths. Finally, she leaned back into the sofa, sitting as she had in Vision’s memory.

In accordance with memory, Wanda said, “…that’s very beautiful. I never cared much for poetry, but… you make it sound alright. Not so boring.”

“Yes, it… it is Baudelaire. Charles Baudelaire. I’ve found his works to be very entrancing. He has a way with words I find admirable.”

She was sitting next to him, alone with him, for the first time, with a glaze of inebriation in her eyes and a sleepy smile on her fair face. She tilted her head to the side. One ankle bobbed lazily in boredom.

Wanda was not actually there, and this projection would bring him no closer to her, Vision decided, watching the projected memory of himself staring at her in a cocktail of uncertainty and unexpected happiness.

“You hated me back then, didn’t you?” Vision finally asked, breaking from the script of his memory.

An artificial Wanda shrugged and said, simply without a single glitch in her voice, “Of everyone here, I hated you the most.”

Vision escaped that program quickly after.

Uncertainty and anxiety appeared to exist, even in a synthetic mind.

He reasoned with himself—that was all that was. Yes. Just an artificial recreation of _his_ thoughts and misconceptions.

Misconception.

Wanda’s hologram-smile as she spoke those words lingered in the back of his mind.

In the lounge, a familiar chess set laid out before him. Vision considered Tony’s options. If he left to Wakanda, Tony would have only an incapacitated Rhodes and a trainee Parker. If he left to Wakanda and was caught, it would only further the rift between the disassembled Avengers.

If he were caught in Wakanda, acting on orders unauthorized by the United States government, the act could be construed as one of aggression, war even. Ever more catastrophic consequences.

But in the chance that he was _not_ caught, he could potentially see her again.

“Do you still hate me after all of this?”

Inconsequential data. Irrelevant details. A waste of fixation. Distraction.

Perhaps this could pave the way to reuniting to divided sides.

False altruism. Ulterior motive.

There as a voice deep in his mind that he could identify only as a hypothetical _superego_ which chided him for thinking such falsely altruistic statements, “…to find a way to reunite divided sides.”

Had he heard himself say these words aloud, he may have scoffed.

There was that crack in the window of which he had noticed a little more than twenty-four hours prior to that moment. One gossamer thread stretched across a certain window that Wanda favored when gazing out at the earth surrounding the facility.

Vision noticed, then, that the crack had forked.

One gossamer thread pushing northward, another, now, breaking eastward off of the origin.

“You are so much more selfish than you realize, Vision.”


	6. Two Entities Which Run Parallel

Wanda could not recall when she first arrived in Wakanda, but she was told by gentle nurses that she had been in recovery for nearly three days. Rehydration, getting her vitals back in order, recovery from malnourishment and perhaps the worst of all was the re-acclimation to stable land when everything in her body still seemed to sway and rock to the rhythm of the ocean. Wanda’s throat was marked with bruises and burns that she glimpsed in a steel tray’s reflection.

A certain nurse’s face became ingrained into her mind during her passing moments of consciousness. Soft, round, beautiful. Dark skin and bright, brown eyes behind small, round glasses. Wanda caught her name only at the beginning of the third day, when she heard herself murmur in a dizzy haze, “Who… are you?”

A quizzical expression crossed the nurse’s gentle, youthful face and then she smiled. In a melodic Wakandan accent, she answered, “My name is Maryam. You are safe here. Rest, now.”

It would not be until she came out of the infirmary and was guided by T’Challa’s hospitable staff members to her own living quarters that she saw herself in a mirror.

“Please, make yourself at home, Miss Maximoff. As a friend to the good Captain, you are a friend to His Highness. On your bed and in the dressers you will find clothing and the like that you are welcome to. Your friends are in a rec-hall on the first floor, where I’m sure they would be happy to see you… but do take the time you need.”

“Maryam, thank you.” Wanda said, but Maryam had already slipped away as quietly as she arrived.

The palace of the Wakandan royalty was a well-lit, modern structure. Tall windows of impenetrable glass, metal and chrome designs that followed an aesthetic she could only describe as sleek, spiral-influenced, and contemporary. Everything was open and grand, with carefully placed homages to Sekhmet and Wakandan deities which Wanda could not yet name.

A grand bed welcomed her, furnished with black silk and the images of panthers framing the headboard. She imagined all of the décor in the guest rooms resembled this. A selection of clothing had been laid out for her—three varying dresses in shades of black and red. She wondered who had let it slip that Wanda’s wardrobe seemed to consist of these colors—and the care taken to accommodate small pleasantries for her did not go unnoticed.

T’Challa was far too kind. Not only was he housing criminals, but he was making sure he housed them comfortably.

Wanda changed into the first ensemble she reached for—a red dress with short sleeves that was accented by gold patterns and rings. She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror, and once again, her eyes fixated on the dark bruises and burns the collar had left on her throat.

Perhaps one day she would meet Ross again and leave burn marks of her own around his neck.

Before she wasted any more time taking in the sight of her hollowed cheeks or sickly pallor, she tore her gaze away.

She joined the others in the rec hall below, where Sam and Clint were discussing contingency plans in the chance that they were to be pursued. Overhearing it, Wanda could only feel that pursuit would be inevitable. Especially considering her presence with them. Lang was sitting on a plush, round sunbed with a distinctly sunglasses-shaped tan line around his eyes and a tall drink in his right hand.

“Hey, Miss Maximoff, glad to see you’re up!” Lang greeted her first.

That was when Sam and Clint turned to her—Sam’s smile was wide and warm, and he gave small applause. Clint was first to throw his arms around Wanda and pull her tight against his body. His embrace always reminded her of the strong, warm arms of her father.

“My god, I’m glad to see you up and about, kid.” Clint’s words were soft on her cheek.

“Thank you… I… I’m alright, really.” Wanda said, as Sam threw his arms around her and, from _somewhere_ , Lang was suddenly stepping in on the embrace.

“I don’t really know you that well, but I feel like we got pretty close in that, you know, shared experience, so. Group hug!” Lang said.

Clint looked visibly irritated, but Sam seemed welcoming enough. Wanda felt the want to laugh welling inside of her. This felt alright. This felt _good_. It was a tight hold that she did not care much for—but these ridiculous men, she decided, she cared about them.

“I see you’ve been getting some sun,” Wanda said, one finger gesturing to the tan lines around Lang’s eyes.

Lang furrowed his brow, “…wait, what?”

Clint and Sam were quietly shaking their heads and mouthing, _“Don’t say a thing. No. Say nothing.”_

“What, do I got a farmer’s tan? I mean, I get that sometimes, but…” Lang was looking over his shoulders—he all too happily jumped right into awkward-fitting Wakandan fashion. He looked like a vacationing tourist.

“Wanda,” It was the first she’d heard of Steve’s voice since the Raft, and oh, how welcome a sound it was.

Wanda shared that first afternoon with them, having not realized how much she craved familiar faces until they were all beside her. They got her caught up on everything that had transpired in the last few days. Steve had gotten them all out of the Raft with T’Challa’s help and now, they were regrouping together in Wakanda, under political asylum. No one knew they were there. At least, that’s what Steve said.

Another thing Wanda had not realized how much she craved until it was all around her, after weeks of being denied it, were the sounds of others’ thoughts. Each head around her like a quiet radio droning along with unique thoughts and emotions. Wanda had wondered about Steve’s friend with the silver arm… she did her best, out of courtesy not to delve into anyone’s mind, but she brushed a sensation in Steve’s mind that was distinctly tethered to this man, that Bucky Barnes.

 That tether was painted a shade reminiscent of loss.

Had the man not made it to Wakanda? She could not be sure unless she took hold of that tether with her mind and followed it for answers. But if she were to violate a dear friend’s mind, it would not be to seek _that_ answer. It would be to follow another rather _loud_ sense in Steve’s mind that was notably grey and only flared to the foreground when he mentioned that, “no one knew where they were.”

 _“No one,”_ he had said.

Grey.

A lie.

Wanda was glad to see Steve and she was glad to be alive and in good hands with these men she considered family. But she realized they did not know, either.

Steve was speaking to them all, addressing them all in that afternoon, but when his eyes met Wanda’s, she sensed that he was well-aware that she could feel his dishonesty and guilt.

Curiosity eventually lured Wanda to that grey tether and when she followed it, she felt only Steve’s memories of Stark. A very certain memory of Stark, holding a pen, offering it to Steve, a very certain memory of Stark’s voice.

_“She’s not a U.S. citizen and they don’t grant visas to weapons of mass destruction.”_

“No one knows we’re here.”

Wanda politely excused herself at that moment, midway into Steve’s visit with them. She felt angry. Steve said nothing, but he knew—Wanda was always aware of what the minds around her knew. For better or for worse.

In the days that followed, Wanda found that when she managed sleep, she would be kicked awake with nightmares. She had burned through enough nightmares on the Raft and she was not sure how much she wanted to go back to the Witches Road just yet.

Meditation, now, was more to gather herself, to tend to psychological wounds that the Raft had reopened.

Meditation was now less a means of contained exploration and more a means to damage control.

A weapon of mass destruction. Cracked and leaking toxic contaminant. She wondered if Stark’s side saw her as _their_ weapon to pursue and reclaim, if only just to throw back into storage with other half-dismantled warheads.

Stark was right, the U.S. wouldn’t grant a visa to a weapon of mass destruction, but it would certainly hunt a stray one down as if it were government property.

Containment.

She took some solace in the lack of light-pollution in Wakanda. The sky overhead when the sun set was an ocean of black velvet upon which precious stones were scattered and glittering bright. The balcony outside of her room was a communal balcony, wrapping around that wing of the palace, where, a bit eastward, she saw Steve speaking with T’Challa. T’Challa was heading back into the palace when Steve turned back to face the city stretching out amongst the lush Wakandan nature around the palace.

Steve turned his head her way and gave an acknowledging nod.

It was often discordant to think of how fondly Wanda regarded Steve despite how at odds she always was with his country. He was no avatar for a country being torn apart from the inside out. There was a lingering echo she caught in Steve’s mind, of his own voice chiding him, _“There is no Captain America.”_

Steve was approaching her now, addressing her with the warm welcome he always met her with, “It’s a little past your bed time, isn’t it, kid?”

Wanda half-laughed and shook her head. She was too tired to think of any response to his typical “kid” jokes.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you since the other day. About what I think you might have seen.” He said.

“You don’t need to talk to me about what I might have or might not have seen. My power is as involuntary as breathing and we don’t memorize each breath we take.”

“Well, we certainly take note when we something’s fishy,” Steve shrugged, “…and I know that even if what you saw, you disapprove of, you still were honorable enough to say nothing. So we aren’t at odds. I don’t think.”

“Fishy, is certainly a way to describe Mr. Stark,” Wanda smirked, “…untrustworthy, dishonest, manipulative, I would have gone with words more along that line.”

“Tony isn’t really all of that, now. Close, sometimes, but I think sometimes you only brush the surface of him.”

“And I thought you two were the ones at odds? For all of this?”

“We… well, Wanda, it’s complicated.”

Wanda nodded and fixed her gaze on a distant structure overseeing a pond in the courtyard—an obsidian panther. It was beautiful. Wanda had never been one for the company of felines, but there was admittedly a great deal of elegance and beauty to the larger members of the species.

“I think you’re aware that the person I did my best to protect isn’t… isn’t exactly with us anymore. He made the choice to go back under ice. And he’s safest with T’Challa. Funny how that works out. I don’t agree with it, but he did it… and Buck’s my friend and I support whatever the real Buck chooses. I guess, I guess I’m honestly a little frustrated by it all, at the gridlock we’re in, and I can’t even have him at my side. Like it always should have been.”

“You disagree with his decision to remove himself?” Wanda was certainly feeling tested by Steve in that moment. First, he defended Stark after all of this madness, and now…

Wanda turned to him, eyes as cold as the ice that now housed Bucky Barnes, “You can’t just say you support what your friend does and in the same sentence say you disagree with it. He was being used as a weapon. Killing people. With, as I understand about this Winter Soldier, a system he had no control over. He chose the path that would put fewer people in harm’s way. Of all the odd, powerful people I’ve met in the last year, I feel I may have understood Barnes the most, had I been given a minute to truly know him.”

Sullen, Steve said slowly, “I have no doubts you’d understand his choices better than me. Hell… you might have even helped him.”

Steve’s mind, it’s emotions, everything at that moment was a swirling grey storm housed under a façade of peaceful features. She sensed turmoil and she sensed bitterness, and all of it was under a thin layer of caked-on altruism.

He wanted Bucky back, no matter how much he supported Bucky’s choice to leave.

“So what now?” The frost in Wanda’s words melted slowly, “Now that you’ve extended an olive branch to Stark and he knows where we are? You know he may very well come for me, be it his orders or higher-up. Tony’s signed his life away to following orders.”

“I suppose we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

“But that’s the thing, is that… you know you’re so very tired of burning bridges.”

Steve feigned a smile. He stood beside Wanda, leaning against the railing in silence.

“No. I’d like to rebuild them, but… sometimes, you can’t build a bridge leading back to the place you escaped. You can only extend a branch and see if the people on the other side are willing to make a leap of faith.” Steve narrowed his eyes and added cautiously, “…all while, on your own side of the canyon, you wonder if you made the right choice.”

Wanda considered his words in her own silence. There was a great deal of Stark—of _Tony_ —on Steve’s mind, she sensed, almost overwhelmingly. Steve was an emotional and overly-sentimental man by nature, Wanda knew, from the short year they had shared together. Perhaps the most emotional and sentimental she’d met in her life, second only to Pietro. Ironic as it was, no one reminded her of Pietro the way Steve reminded her of Pietro.

A man of blind convictions and of love for his fellow man.

Ironic as it was, a man like that was always tangled in the webs of men like Stark or with the consequences of a manipulated Bucky Barnes.

Perhaps it was not unlike the way Pietro was always tangled in her own web, fighting her battles, taking the spines of books pitched at them by their peers.

“…and what if you are the one being asked to make a leap of faith? How many chasms would you cross to share a moment with something or someone of importance to you? Rooting yourself in the earth is all fine and noble… but you may find yourself immobilized when given an opportunity that is only fleeting.”

“Fleeting, huh…?”

“Fleeting.” Wanda repeated.

Bucky was on his mind again. It was almost amusing to Wanda how Steve’s emotions twisted and turned like the fractals of a kaleidoscope. Oh, unfortunate, passionate man. He would pursue whatever image the kaleidoscope ended on, at least, until the hand that turned it moved again.

Always chasing lights.

“Bucky… why the hell did you go back under…?” Steve sighed, lowering his head between hunched shoulders.

Wanda’s lips straightened into a tight line for a moment, before she said, “…you know, Steve… do not take this as a lack of gratitude. But, I was coming to terms with that place as my fate.”

Steve looked at her.

“If I were there, even if I suffered, at least I knew that no one could be harmed by me. Never again. That people were safe from me. I thought, then, that if given the choice to leave the Raft, I may have chosen to stay. The truth is, I feel I don’t belong in this world. They all fear me. They are all afraid of the Scarlet Witch.”

Steve’s brow was knit in an expression of shared hurt, “Wanda, you know that’s not all true.”

“I know it’s true, Steve. I’ve always felt their fear. Even as a little girl. Even before Dr. List… did _this_ to me, made me into _this_. I am changed, but… I am still me. I am still the human-shaped thing on the outside looking in. These powers, they have only proven one thing to me. That I was never meant to step in and join everyone else. I was meant to step away and find something else.”

“You’re a kid, Wanda,” she could sense disappointment and a disheartened sort of sadness in Steve—dare she say it, perhaps even a sense of defeat—and Steve spoke, “You’re a kid in a world that’s very quickly turning out to have more than just humans living on it. There are things, _things_ , out there that could… look, all I want is to see you safe. Somewhere safe. _Loved_ , even. You deserve a family that can look out for you, not trap and imprison you.”

 _Family_ , Wanda let the word cross her mind. She thought of the embrace and the love she felt from Clint, and Sam, and even from the newfound Scott Lang. Kindness. Acceptance. She would wholeheartedly go to the ends of the earth to rescue them as she knew they would rescue her. Yes, Wanda decided, she knew the meaning of family in a world post-Pietro, but that did not mean the war was won yet.

That family was missing a pivotal piece, cloaked in gold and scarlet—and she was not sure what to make of her own lingering thoughts on a certain synthetic member to their disassembled family. Nor was she sure how to consider Tony Stark after everything on the Raft, after his second attempt to lock her away—for her own good—whether or not he was aware of the consequences.

Natasha flickered to mind, just as crimson as Stark’s armor. Cold, but somehow, the one small flame that still burned between them all on the iciest nights. Gone into the shadows, though still glowing quietly wherever she was.

Steve could not call this a family, not yet. Not as it was.

Perhaps, Wanda decided, the days of family were over and they were all simply unwilling to let it go.

“You know… in another life, I might tell you, Wanda, you couldn’t make that sort of choice and just happily run away from the world because you think it doesn’t want you. But I guess, if I said it now, I’d be a hypocrite.”

Wanda placed a gentle, gloved hand on Steve’s shoulder and said, “Time has a way of mending what needs to be mended… do you know of Rhodes, if he’s well? Stark, even? …Viz?”

“Rhodes was hurt pretty bad by that accident. From what I’ve heard, he’s doing rehabilitation right now. Tony’s with him every step of the way. You know they were always tight. Tony’s been mentoring that… Spider-kid. Uh, Vision, he’s just floating around being his odd old self.”

Vision, floating around, being his odd old self. Wanda decided there was something amusing about the way Steve described that.

“We never really figured out what it was he was floating around doing.” Wanda added softly.

Steve half-laughed and shook his head, “No… nope, that… that Vision is one zen cat. Chances are they probably got him to do some kind of… spirit ritual to exorcise your creepy doll collection.”

Wanda laughed.

Before they parted ways, Steve had told her, quite clearly, “Tony… I’ve extended the olive branch. But realistically, forward, we’ll be functioning as two separate entities, running parallel. Perhaps as it always should have been.”

It was a thought that hung in her mind as she returned to her room, to that massive bed and it’s enticing comforts. She had gone long enough evading sleep to try and dodge nightmares.

Perhaps she should follow advice that Steve had once given her, regarding nightmares, far back in her first weeks as an Avenger—to face it head on. To never run from nightmares.

That had been the same night that Vision had first phased into her room, uninvited, awkward, and a great deal of confusion had followed—and she recalled it only with warmth, even after all this time.

It had been a night quite similar to this one, in which she had ended her evening with a long bout of Steve’s counsel—or perhaps, had it been a mutual sort of counsel? There was a certain kind of learning they gained from one another’s presence. The two of them had been sitting in the lounge, playing a game of chess together and discussing the subject of grief and mourning. Vision had been sitting beside her, reading a book in silence.

She had wanted Vision to say something, anything, she had wanted to know what his thoughts on grief were. He said nothing, even when she mistakenly (intentionally) moved a rook the way a bishop should be played.

Steve was the one who corrected her. But out of the corner of her eye, she caught Vision glancing her way. Disapproval, probably. Back then, he had come off as something of a snob. In retrospect, she cared little for him back then, but still, for some damnable, frustrating reason, she wanted to hear his thoughts on everything.

That conversation over chess had started as one regarding grief and loss and transitioned into the topic of nightmares and the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. Steve detailed the symptoms by firsthand experience and it was the first and last she had ever heard of him mention it.

Ultimately, he told her that the only thing to do was treat it like a fight meant to be won. And so, that night, she had tried to follow his advice. She had curled up in her bed, in that room of the Avengers facility that was so scantly furnished at the time, and in the tearful lack of Pietro’s presence, she somehow found sleep.

There were only nightmares of falling in Novi Grad that followed.

She woke up with a scream and she could recall crying for a time after, silently, muffling her fear into bunched up blankets.

That was when she caught a tear-blurred shadow rising up out of the floor, at the foot of her bed, facing her.

Wanda had screamed at this, this _baubas_ and pitched everything from her pillows and clocks at the shadow.

Amongst Sokovian curses, Wanda had yelled, “ _Baubas_! GET OUT!”

It wasn’t until she realized he was stammering apologies and it wasn’t until she realized the familiar way her items were phasing through the shadow that the identity of the _baubas_ became clear. By then, he had faded back down through the floor, as quietly as he had come.

She thought, in a teary-eyed, frightened panic, that the awkward, unnerving android was gone. At least, until his head and torso materialized through the floor beside her with a very calm, “Are you alright, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda screamed and smacked the headboard with her one last pillow so hard it knocked over a dreamcatcher that Clint had made for her.

“Vision!? What, what the _hell_ are you doing!?” Wanda shrieked.

Vision’s voice was muffled from somewhere unseen, “I heard you crying and I was concerned.”

“Well, don’t be!”

“My apologies.”

“Wait.” Wanda conceded, tone exhausted, “…Vision, wait.”

Vision appeared again, rising through the floor.

“First, thank you for your concern. Second, just… if the door is closed, please. _Please_. Knock.”

Vision hung his head low and glanced sideward, “Of course, yes. I… hadn’t thought about this… clearly.”

There was a moment of silence that followed, before Vision asked, “…what is a _baubas?_ If I may ask?”

“Vision, leave.”

“Understood.”

He left without question, stepping through the wall as if it were an open door.

Wanda eventually found sleep again that night.

Nightmares followed.

Likewise, on a similar night, over a year later in Wakanda, nightmares followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I love writing Sam, Steve, Clint, and Scott interacting with Wanda. The boys just care so much about her and Wanda's just so not used to having so many people care about her. It's a warm feeling she hasn't felt in ages—a feeling of having a happy family, a welcoming family. Even with Pietro gone, Wanda's needed time to realize she's far, _far_ from alone. 
> 
> Then, memories. Memories that seek to point out just _what it was she and Vision talked about_ back when he didn't understand fully what closed doors implied. Bless. Vision is still learning!
> 
> That said, thank you for reading, guys! This chapter got posted a tad bit late (might have been sleeping off some kind of summer cold or flu of some sort and slept a good 12 hours longer than intended.)


	7. To Return to a Place of Origin

The Quinjet Model-S had yet to be used until Tony Stark entrusted it to Vision for the sole purpose of this one mission. Reconnaissance, Tony had assured him. The controls and flight documentation were accessed by the Stark Network’s database, and the piloting of the vehicle was not much different from that of the original Quinjet. The engine was supposedly “dead-silent” and its appearance was masked in bent light, rendering the machine nearly invisible. The concept itself was interesting enough—the manipulation of refracted light. Vision had spent most of the trip poring over the research materials Tony had locked away in the network’s files. His encryptions were always easy enough to hack—not that he would care to let Tony know about these covert visits into his private, digital notebooks.

Otherwise, Vision piloted in silence.

There were certain details that lingered in his mind when he had first stepped into the vehicle with Tony, nine hours prior. The name plates on the walls of the passenger cabin, marked for Romanoff, Rhodes, Wilson, Rogers… even a particular place for Maximoff. These assigned seats were stored with necessities common to each user—guns in Romanoff’s particular flavor, backup artillery for the armored suits of Rhodes and Wilson, and even devices specific to Rogers that Vision had not inquired of. He wanted to know what Stark had packed for Wanda in the weapons cabinet near her seat. Wanda had a categorical dislike of handguns, despite Natasha’s efforts to train her in the usage of.

For its maiden voyage, the Quinjet Model-S was en route not to Wakanda, but, as Tony carefully instructed, to the far border of Sudan.

“Be aware that the thing has enough fuel locked in for the trip to Sudan. Afterward, you’ll have to dip into the reserves, stored in the detachable rear—by all means, do yourself a favor and _detach_ the fuck out of that beast if it comes under fire. In the case of the Quinjet being rendered immobilized, you’ve got access to the killswitch. We want this thing dusted before anyone else gets their hands on it.”

Stark had been pale of face when he gave these instructions on the night Vision left, “Fly low in Sudanese airspace, Viz. Do not get caught. Caught means a potential ‘Act of War’ story that our PR team couldn’t re-spin if their lives depended on it—which, actually, I guess, it kind of would. You get me, though. _Do not_ , fly too high or fly too low. _Do not_ enter Wakandan airspace with this thing; latest stealth tech nor not, Wakanda _will_ catch you. I’ve locked in coordinates to a nice middle of nowhere spot near the border where you can put it in standby. Till the mission’s over. Three days. Just get an idea of what’s up.”

“Understood, Sir.”

“Viz. Stop calling me Sir.”

Vision had not been sure how to respond to this. Tony had looked at him in a way he had not seen until that moment. It was not a smile, it was too sad to be a smile, but it was too weary to be discernable sadness.

“After that time, wrap it up and head back. The reserve tanks are smaller. You’ll have new fuel waiting for you at a safe house in Greece. Again. Consult the coordinates. I’ve mapped it all out for you. I just need you to be my eyes. Knowing me, if I went, I’d fuck it all up.”

Tony had paused, his eyes fixed in the direction of a seat that was designated for Captain Rogers. Empty. Across from a seat that was designated for himself—Stark. Just as it was in the last Quinjet, where the two men often traded off the role of pilot in the Quinjet.

“Once you cross the Wakandan borders, comm lines to me will be severed. For traceability. Security. They’re good. We can’t risk them tracing any frequency back to the states, not now. You’ll be on a communications blackout.”

“Understood.”

“Good luck, Viz.”

Vision arrived in Sudan, undetected. The vehicle was left in standby, invisible and untraceable. Defense mechanisms were armed. Encryption would require any further use of the device without activating the self-destruct protocol. The border between Sudan and Wakanda was heavily guarded by land, and presumably, the airspace was locked down with equal caution.

A being like him, phasing in and out of matter itself was, gratefully, not a threat. At that moment, he was simply a shadow seeking answers. The capital of Wakanda was located a short flight later, where he was met with the rich greenery of equatorial Africa, and the uniquely Wakandan statues of their deity Sekhmet, standing proud and sentinel over the city.

The sight was mesmerizing. Beautiful, even, lit only by the night sky and the vast, open view of space itself.

Space.

For a moment, he found himself reminded of the way the Manhattan skyline glittered through the windows of Stark Tower, the first day he came into existence.

Those small, manmade lights had reminded him of a peculiar something he would later come to identify as _stars._

But the answer to that question of familiarity had only lead him to further questions—from where had he sourced such déjà vu upon the sight of sparkling lights strewn across the night sky?

Déjà vu filtered through his mind again in that moment, as his wonder for the Wakandan capital crossed each vibranium-reinforced structure until he spied a large mountain in the distance—a _crater_. The oldest source of the earth’s vibranium supply, at the heart of Wakanda.

His Highness’s palace was an ornate building, resonating vibranium in a way that filled Vision with a sense of _something_. He could not quite attach a word to the way it felt to be surrounded by such quantities of the very element bound to his every single structural cell. Perhaps, Vision decided, it reminded him of the pleasant way Steve’s shield had soothed him, just by sharing a presence in the same room. Something peaceful. Wanda had once told him, holding that doll of hers—her Ana—that it made her feel peaceful.

How odd it was that it was nearly a year later that he felt a semblance of understanding to her abstraction.

Wakanda and its vibranium were quite peaceful, Vision decided. An alluring sense of safety.

Undetected, Vision was phased to near-invisibility. Shadows cloaked him in gentle non-existence. In the research floors of the palace, he came across a team of researchers performing diagnostics on a familiar body held in cryogenic stasis. The question of Bucky Barnes was answered easily in the first night—and, as per Stark’s warning, Vision did not dare make his presence electronically known by giving in to the temptation of hacking their systems. The security would be too tight to risk jeopardizing the mission. Vision’s job was to be an eavesdropping ghost.

Files were already kept for Wakanda’s newest guests. Some of it had been pilfered from the Raft, Vision came to learn, psych-evaluations and files detailing the research Raft staff had done on the equipment confiscated from Sam Wilson and Scott Lang. There were comments in Lang’s evaluation files describing a connection to Pym Technologies _—“Hank’s not gonna let this slide, you guys are digging yourselves one hell of a grave and let me tell you, Hank Pym’s something of a gravedigger. Don’t let that youthful face fool you.”_ —they had marked Pym a person of interest after this statement.

Clint had said nothing during any evaluation, any interview, not even tactics of intimidation seemed to pull a word from the man unless it was some deadpan attempt at humor. As expected. Clint was not one for mind games.

Wilson’s Raft file drew Vision’s attention, however. When he saw Stark’s name included. Dated May 30th, 2016, a section detailed an unscheduled visit from Tony Stark _—“Hold the fort, Viz, I’ve got some business in Malibu. You know, Pepper. Girls. Wish me luck, pal.”_ —Vision kept reading. There was a thirty-second security glitch in the audio monitors over Sam’s cell when Tony spoke with him. Nothing on record indicated that they ever found out what that conversation entailed.

Tony had never mentioned the Raft on May 30th, 2016.

Wanda’s file was the final in the stack—a bit thicker with notes from a certain Dr. Matsumoto, who had overseen the majority of Wanda’s evaluations. Numerous notes detailed Ross’s interest and push to have Wanda’s brain scanned for the particular anomalies that sourced her powers. Matsumoto complied with little input. The bulk of his observations lay in the notes on Wanda’s psyche—a hypothesis that her clairvoyance was simply her mind’s resting state, and upon enough agitation, could manipulate matter itself down to an atomic level. She was marked a high-level threat to employee safety.

Further pages detailed the design of the collar and its use. Dated May 17th, 2016. Electrical pulse values, charge and voltage weight, impulse sensitivity—Vision took in the details of this collar’s purpose and effects, but not without the constant thought in the front of his mind. The knowledge that Tony knew about this.

Disappointing.

Vision closed the files and returned them to their rightful places. Everything he had seen was recorded data that Stark would be able to view upon his return. Medical notes by the staff detailed the recovery processes and the debriefing of each Avenger whom Steve had rescued.

Vision knew that when Tony viewed these files later, he would not know the sense of anger welling inside at that very moment.

Eventually, Vision had made his way to the location of the few people still awake in the palace at this hour, barring security personnel. From the shadows, he spied Lang, Sam, and Clint sharing drinks. Lang appeared a few drinks ahead of the other men, slouching and perhaps half-asleep under cheap-looking black sunglasses.

“So I heard you were retired before this…” Scott Lang was sitting in a chaise lounge petting a purring cat which had claimed his chest as its new bed.

“I was supposed to take my kids waterskiing.” Clint said.

“Family, huh? Wow, man. Yeah. Yeah, man I feel you on that. I got a little girl. God, I miss her. Didn’t see her for a… for a long time. Kinda… kinda really breaks my heart.”

“Man, you gotta take it easy on those teas,” Sam sighed.

“Hey, they don’t call it the _Lang_ Island Iced Tea for nothing!” Scott grinned.

“No, Scott. Nobody calls it the _Lang_ Island Iced Tea.” Sam answered.

“…aw, heck.” Lang conceded, slouching a little further as he stroked the cat’s long-haired head, “…come on. At least the cat likes me.”

The cat left him.

Lang said nothing. He made a hands-up gesture of defeat and then announced, “Alright. I’m going to bed. I’m out.”

“ _Where_ did you pick this guy up?” Sam whispered to Clint.

Clint shrugged, “California.”

Sam sighed and rubbed his temple, “…this downtime’s killing me. Feels wrong to be lounging around while waiting for the next mission. At a time like this. Fight just isn’t over yet.”

“Well. It feels a bit wrong to turn down a drink from the new boss.” Clint replied.

“Well. Can’t argue that, really. Y’think that’s how we should be seeing it already, though? T’Challa. New boss.”

“At this point in time, I figure we’re not much more than a band of hired hands. Not even political asylum comes with a price. Not overtly stated, sure, but T’Challa’s doing us a favor. I intend to pay back that favor before I leave.”

“I feel it. Makes sense. The honorable thing to do.”

“But I’ll tell you one thing. Never was fond of sitting around waiting for the next shot to be fired.”

“That’s Steve’s style. He’s not an aggressor.”

“No. I don’t think that’s Steve at all. I think it’s the gridlock talking. Not Steve.”

“Well, Clint, we’re _a little_ boxed in.”

Clint sighed and nodded, staring out a window. Neither of the men said anything afterward.

Little more was to be gleaned from this conversation, Vision decided. He phased back through the walls and rose upward, seeking out the next up and moving heat signals in the vicinity. Coming to the fourth floor, he found, distinctly, T’Challa and Steve in one nearby corridor, and in the residential quarters above, he sensed a very familiar and very familiar source of neuroelectric disruption— _Wanda_.

Ultimately, T’Challa and Steve’s conversation proved most pressing, but it did not stop the sheer magnetic pull that was Wanda Maximoff’s presence.

“They misconstrue our silence as a time of weakness,” T’Challa spoke, walking with Steve in a black and gold suit, “…our nation still mourns our lost King. In two days’ time, the nation would have come together in holiday to celebrate my father’s birthday. These are sullen times. Morale is low. Anger rises by the day. The _Hatut Zeraze_ have seized the moment to move in on key vibranium mines in the west.”

Steve followed along, the curious expression on his face indicative of interest in this _Hatut Zeraze_ , “They give us not even the time to fully grieve our losses. With no respect for the dead, they step forth. You see, they are a group of men who once answered to my father… but in the days leading up to Vienna… they did not. My father had planned on defunding and disbanding their unit entirely when he returned from Vienna. As you can see,”—T’Challa’s watch opened up to a holographic interface displaying a map of the central Wakandan region, fixing on several marked locations to the west—“…they take the opportunity as it presents itself.”

“And this team, you’ve confirmed affiliation with black market vibranium trade?”

“Confirmed, verified, all we had to do was have them tried and charged. That was not a day before Lagos.” T’Challa picked a spot on the map and zoomed in on it, bringing up several portraits of the _Hatut Zeraze_ operatives. T’Challa pulled focus onto the first portrait and explained, “An operative codenamed White Wolf. He was my brother.”

Steve was silent, looking over this man that the interface further identified.

Finally, Steve asked, “What changed? Between being brothers and becoming enemies?”

T’Challa looked at Steve and answered simply, “Let us call it a difference of opinions. Irreparable misconceptions.”

Vision had followed the two along the stretch of the corridor, slipping out into the shadows of an open-air balcony on which the men appeared.

“We have reason to believe that in the coming days, there will be a strike on a particular vibranium quarry twenty-two. If the clues threading back to my brother prove true, then it will no doubt be an operation of the _Hatut Zeraze_. That, my friend, is what I seek to prevent.”

“Is there a reason for that particular quarry?”

“Well. There is more than just vibranium there which they would stand to collect.”

“Sounds like the sort of mission that’s right up my alley.”

“Perhaps. But I do not wish to see you encourage your friends to partake in a war that is not their own.”

“Those who live to fight will fight. But those who don’t, they will not be forced. But know us, T’Challa. We are still Avengers. Fighting criminals and keeping the peace. It’s kind of what we do.”

T’Challa smiled warmly and answered, “When the Black Panther sets out for the hunt, the presence of allied claws is welcome.”

It was then that Vision caught sight of lights overhead.

Red lights were filtering out of one balcony above, which radiated Wanda’s neuroelectric activity. Like the rise and fall of a breathing chest, the scarlet energy reached out and in again in time with her heart. It was peaceful. Riding this tide of unseen energy, the tiniest red sparks swayed down on the air until an inevitable fade, like snowflakes melting on a warm breeze.

Vision watched Steve and T’Challa’s conversation for a moment longer, growing categorically more interested in the rolling red tide overhead. It went unnoticed to them as they slipped away into further corridors and now, the only point of interest to Vision was Wanda.

A translucent ghost, Vision rose up to her balcony.

There, at the center of her room, Wanda floated in a circle of red, stormy lights. A self-contained aurora in the same blood-red hues as the soft, loose-fitting dress she wore. She was peaceful, in a state of meditation that allowed him to slip into her room undetected.

In the past, back in the Avengers facility, he would occasionally find her like this. Perhaps not quite as subdued and peaceful—he had always encouraged her to take up meditation to clear her mind.

For Wanda, meditation was decidedly _different_ from the clearing of the mind which he had suggested. In her definition, meditation had always been enveloping herself in a spiraling little vortex of red lights and busying herself with a small world of chaos.

She would often attempt to stack a house of playing cards or weave strings into ornate patterns while she focused on keeping herself afloat—wobbling, clumsy—Wanda was always trying to accomplish so much at once. Levitating small objects around her, candles, cups, books, whatever was caught into her gravitational pull, Wanda floated with wavering steadiness through the halls of the compound.

Back then, he would often follow her out of curiosity.

Vision was always just a few meters behind her, levitating at the same speed and height, but always doing his best to look as though he were _not_ letting curiosity get the best of him. She would pass him with little notice, her own eyes fixed on a book in one hand, while in the other, she reached for the cup of coffee following in her orbit. Waving one small finger in a circular motion, a spoon inside of the cup stirred cream and sugar.

Perhaps, he too, were merely an object in space circling an indifferent celestial body.

It was not until one afternoon that she had acknowledged him in her orbit.

It had been approximately four months after they had returned from Novi Grad.

He had been playing a game of chess by himself when she slipped through the kitchen for a cup of tea. After acquiring it, Wanda carved her graceful path back for her room—but not without catching his rook in several of the tiniest red sparks of light.

Vision watched, curious, as the rook was lifted up into Wanda’s red storm, and she gave him a challenging smirk on her way out of the lounge.

He had sat there for a moment, slightly immobilized. Inconvenienced. He was just about to move that piece.

In a moment, he had phased through her wall, stating simply, “My rook, please?”

Wanda was so startled by his sudden presence that her house of cards all but burst in several directions, her mug of chamomile spilled over a desk and the witchling herself turned to him, half-dressed, half-enraged, and wholly indignant.

“What. Did. I. Say. About. Knocking!?” Wanda yelled, pitching pillows at him, “You saw nothing!”

“I-I’m, my apologies, I just… I saw nothing.”

“If someone has their door closed, you _knock_ , do not enter without knocking! They could be getting dressed!” Wanda pitched another pillow at him to emphasize her point—each and every pillow phased through him, but it did not seem to stop her or quell her rage.

“I apologize… that was quite rude of me. My rook, though, please? Miss Maximoff?”

“Your what?” Wanda said.

“My rook.”

Confused, Wanda began, “What is… oh, your tower.”

The chess piece floated back toward Vision with a nonchalant flick of her wrist.

“It is called a rook.” Vision said.

With another flick of the wrist, it escaped his grasp moments before landing in his open palm. Wanda took it between her own slender fingers and looked it over with feigned interest, “Hm… rook. I always thought it was just some kind of castle.”

“No,” Vision’s words were slow, cautious, and somehow slightly dizzied, “…a castle in chess is different, it is a move in which… you do not play much, do you?”

He reached for it again and again, Wanda pulled the piece away. An amused grin crossed her features as he reached for it to little avail, “I do not know how to play.”

Vision offered, “Would you like to learn?”

Slowly, Wanda guided the rook back into Vision’s hand as she watched him with some caution in her eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. In the span of 4.7 seconds of silence between them, Vision noticed for the first time that the color of her eyes was somewhere between steely silver and an oceanic teal, varying by lighting. He was not sure why he took such notice of such an inconsequential detail. But the thought would remain a prominent part of that memory, henceforth.

As she adjusted her cropped tee-shirt, she pointed to the door, “I need to get some sleep, Viz. Good night.”

 _Viz_ , she had called him. He wished her a good evening and left.

In retrospect, he realized that he phased through the closed door.

In retrospect, he could hear her laughing quietly from inside her room. It was a pleasant sound.

In the present, Vision entered Wanda’s room through the open doors of the balcony, carried on a night breeze. Nearing her serene form, he saw the horrid scars left by that wretched collar. Her throat was bruised and where the device touched her flesh, electrical burns carved intricate patterns. She looked drained, pallid, the hollows under her cheekbones sunken further and the violet under her eyes, a bit darker.

For a moment, he felt a flash of— _something_ —keenly directed toward Stark.

Something.

Something not unlike the sense that flooded his mind when Rhodes had given that fateful order to disable Wilson’s suit—moments after having dropped Wanda to her knees with deafening frequency bursts.

Yes, it was very much _that something_.

There was a sense of desperation in the growing want to speak to her.

To reach out to her.

Not far below her suspended, bare feet, her magic was carving a scarlet circle beneath her. Runes of some sort, which he could not identify, were making a pattern around the red rings. More little red embers rose up into the air from each symbol.

As the glyphs carved their way into existence, the circle expanded with several more rings. Before he could react, he was being pulled into the red lights which Wanda rested in the center of. A sense of nervousness filled him, and yet, he could not pull free of this gravity even if he wished to.

His focus fixed back on Wanda’s throat, willowy, her face, fragile. She was pulling him—and his arm, his hand, gave in without resistance. His fingertips wanting only to brush across the scars on her neck and the dry, chipped skin of her lips. Phantom digits that simply phased through her as though he did not exist at all.

Tracing incorporeal fingers through chestnut tresses, that sense of _something_ he had felt about Tony, about the Raft, about her incarceration—Vision realized the word for it.

Anger.

At the sight of the violet tint beneath sunken eyes, he felt another emotion he had become quite acquainted with in the recent days—guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, Vision really struggled in the past with the door thing. I don't think he'll ever get it, poor lad. But at least he got his rook back!


	8. She Who Walks The Witches Road

The curiosity had been too much. Wanda dipped back into a meditative state in pursuit of that monochrome wood path. Even that lake and its aggressive specter were on Wanda’s mind—and she was all too happy to fight back this time. With the collar long gone, she was free to move about this road as she pleased, lighting her path with a small, burning red sun in her palms.

She made it back to that lake and its dark waters lapping the muddy bank. Wanda crossed this lake by levitation, intent on reaching the island at the lake’s center. Just as the old woman before had said—there, at the heart of the lake, was a chapel. A rustic, wooden structure with a tall bell tower, untouched for what seemed like an eternity.

Perhaps she would find that woman there.

As she landed on the island, she noticed fleeting red rings of light that rippled around her every footstep. Strange. She pressed forward, entering the building.

The interior of the church was reminiscent of the religious buildings from her Sokovian childhood. Tall ceiling, six evenly spaced pillars at the edge of the benches, and in the far distance, a grand, stained glass window with the design of three celestial female bodies. There was no stage made to present a minister or priest of any sort, however, in the place of a podium was a great marble visage of some goddess she was unfamiliar with.

A second glance at the goddess stopped her in her tracks, however.

She noted a distinct design of scarring across the stone goddess’s body—across her legs, her toes blended together, her arms and her neck in the shape of mottled, marred flesh. Wanda’s eyes stopped across the vague structure of the statue’s face—as though the artist’s hand had stopped carving features into stone representative of flesh. Either that, or an intentional implication of scar tissue.

Within the church were four quiet figures, heads hung low, two in meditation, and another, thumbing through the pages of an old tome. These women were familiar in dress as well—they reminded her ever so vaguely of her mother, in flowing, old-Sokovian veils and ornate jewelry.

In the second bench from the front, she recognized the woman from before—fair curls, distinctly old Victorian fashion. This time, she wore dark veil. When she turned to Wanda, the veil was lifted—a look of recognition on her features.

“You made it, dear! Welcome,” the woman had quietly gestured for Wanda to follow, and so, follow she did, out into a garden behind the church.

“What is this place?” Wanda asked when they were outside of the quiet sanctuary.

“A safe place. For witches of all faiths. The lost daughters of many different celestial bodies, you could find us all crossing paths here at least once in a blue moon,” There was a warm smile on the elderly woman’s face as she eyed the building, “…here, we are all safe under the watchful eyes of our mothers’ mother, our Matron.”

The Matron… that must have been the statue she had seen at the heart of the church, Wanda decided.

“What I want to know is, is this place real? Or am I dreaming? Are _you_ real? Somewhere, wherever you are… and those women, are _they_ real?”

“Child, of course, we are all real, just as real as you are, meditating in your home just as all of us do.”

Wanda took in a breath, “I don’t understand this. It has to be some kind of dream? An overactive imagination. I-I’m crazy, I think?”

The woman gave a sharp laugh and then guided Wanda with a gentle hand on the small of her back, “Dreaming? Oh, darling. You _are new_. Come, child. We walk.”

Wanda tried to calm herself, to cling to what little rational sense she could make of this dream space that this woman was now implying _not_ to be a dream.

“Given that this is our second crossing of paths, child, I have a sense that you and I are intended to become acquainted. I am Agatha… and you?”

“Wanda.”

“Wanda,” Agatha nodded, repeating the name softly, “A beautiful name. Now, tell me, how long have you been finding yourself here? In the Witches Road?”

Wanda thought about this, thought back to the first time she had wandered into this place through deep meditation and answered, “…a few weeks now.”

“And a few weeks ago, if you don’t mind my asking, had you experienced any particular trauma?”

Wanda shut her eyes and shook her head, she was not yet interested in describing it, “I’m not interested in discussing how I wound up here. I meditated. My mind was in chaos. Someone had told me… if my mind was in chaos, to clear it by meditation. So I gave it a shot. I’d never gone this far. I got lost.”

Agatha nodded and said nothing. As silence fell over them, Wanda felt the bite of curiosity demanding answers to her questions.

“The last time I came here, I got attacked by something. Like some kind of shadow. It knocked me out of my concentration.”

With a scoff Agatha said bluntly, “So you have an enemy. Join the club, darling.”

Wanda wondered if that tired grin on Agatha’s face implied this was commonplace.

“An enemy? Didn’t you say this place was safe?”

“ _This_ place is safe, because I make it so, this sanctuary here on the lake,” Agatha pointed to the soil beneath them with long, bony fingers. Her nails were long, rounded, and painted a shade of burgundy so deep it was nearly black.

Going on, Agatha explained, “Someone like you is aware of your presence here. It’s the only logical explanation. Do you know others like yourself, girl, in the waking world? Any who may harbor ill will toward you? Surely, if they’re the sort to chase you down all the way into the Witches Road, then you should be able to recall them right away.”

Wanda shook her head softly, “No. I don’t know anyone like me. I always thought myself to be some kind of monster. Alone.”

“Oh, child. You are far from that.” Agatha’s fingers were soft as she caressed Wanda’s face.

“This place is familiar, too, like I’ve seen it before. I, I can’t really say from where, though. Like déjà vu maybe.”

“Well. This particular place is a reconstruction. I built it myself with my own rituals. It was intended to be a sanctuary to lost sisters in the paths. This lake you see around us—it is Lake Wundagore. I saw it once, many, many years ago… it was so peaceful. Like a sanctuary… and so I made it such.”

“You can do that? Create locations like this?”

“Well, only in this place, where we have unrestricted power, and only with ages of practice. In fact, this Wundagore you see is not quite like the Wundagore of the present. Things change.” Agatha’s eyes fixed out on the mountains beyond the lake’s edge and her voice trailed.

Wanda had no reason to tell the woman of it, but she was familiar with Wundagore herself. Perhaps that explained that sense of familiarity. Wanda followed Agatha’s gaze toward the mountains, where even in the grey light, she saw evergreens swaying in gentle wind. Wanda could recall, in her childhood, when her family still lived in the town she was born in, on the foothills near the lake’s edge. The town of Wundagore, Sokovia.

When she looked back to Agatha, the woman was gone.

The grey lights and silver skies were growing brighter. Brighter, shining, until everything was a blinding shade of white. White dulled to red. A semi-conscious swaying blur of deep crimson. She felt a tickle on her shoulder, her neck, brushing across her cheek. A sigh escaped her—serenity, calm, there was some kind of tower before her, some kind of lighthouse on a stormy ocean.

When she opened her eyes, Vision was before her. He froze. She froze.

The red lights around the two of them intensified and for a moment, and Wanda felt only fury. The last time she had seen Vision’s face, he had turned away—and officers had guided her with unnecessary force into an armored vehicle to several subsequent weeks of undersea hell.

Vision hadn’t said a damned thing.

Her hands clenched. Vision’s body went stiff as the red lights crossing through his translucent form solidified him and forced him out of his phantom state. She could feel his muscles tense under her red lights, uncomfortably so, restricting him until she decided she’d release him.

“What are you doing here?” Wanda’s whisper was a near hiss.

“I… I needed to know you were well.”

Wanda felt she should have seen that answer coming. She wasn’t one to linger on the implication of Vision’s words, not at that moment. Not when his presence implied Stark knew where they were. Stark and all of those bastards who would come for her and put her back in that prison, to bind her up and burn her like a witch without trial.

“Did Stark put you up to this? Where is he? Is he here?” Wanda’s psychic grip on Vision tightened and the pain was growing evident on his face.

“No… it… is only me… and I was not supposed to make contact, not with anyone…” He feigned a smile—Wanda was taken aback by how out of place smiles looked on Vision’s oft-serious face—and Vision added weakly, “…and yet, here we are…”

Wanda nodded, folding her arms over her chest, but not loosening her hold on Vision. The gold stone on his forehead was clouded red under her influence. She could feel it was a source of tremendous pain. A thought crossed her mind—perhaps in that moment, the pain in his head matched the pain in her chest. Wanda would allow herself that moment of selfishness as she tried to imagine what to do with this intruder.

“Reconnaissance, then. I see… and what if I were to alert T’Challa of your presence? What makes you think I’m worth jeopardizing your own mission? It’s foolish.”

Vision tried to move toward her and Wanda needed only to bend her fingers to turn the tight grip on his every muscle into a psychic stranglehold.

“You can… see into my mind, Wanda… just like you can see into anyone else’s.” Vision spoke the obvious, his eyes fixed sternly on her own, “…I think that there, you will find the answer to your question.”

An invitation into his mind.

Wanda stared up at him, reflexively shrinking away. She had yet to take him up on the first offer to look into his mind, that first offer ages ago, the day they had met. She had seen enough of it once, before Stark and Dr. Banner and before Thor brought a lifeless, synthetic body to life with the Infinity Stone.

Wanda had long decided that she never wanted to look into his mind again after that, no matter how often he extended the invitation.

“Look. Take whatever answer you want… all will lead to the same conclusion, that… I…”

“You need to leave. You need to leave before anyone else sees you,” Wanda said. Tears threatened to pool over, and yet, she felt a light, fluttering warmth in her chest. Something like sunlight. It was inviting, alluring, and it was only there because he was there. The sensation was as odd as it was nonsensical. She was picking up on too many different psychic processes in Vision’s head, she reasoned.

“Wanda…”

“Go. Leave. Tell Tony whatever it is you learned, but please, just go, right now, before you’re caught and all of this becomes a hundred times worse.”

“T’Challa and Rogers, at this time, are speaking of taking action against an organization threatening Wakanda. Understandably, you will not be made to fight. Rogers naturally intends to present each of you with a choice. Which choice will you make?”

Wanda leaned in, closer to him now, her voice barely above a whisper, “Vision, this is not the time for casual conversation.”

“No, it isn’t,” Vision said, his body still forced to fix his head and his gaze straight forward as Wanda lingered near his cheek, his jawline. She heard his voice hitch like a caught sigh when she got too close. Vision continued, words careful, “…and yet, look at us. Always making casual conversation at inopportune times.”

He was turning his head toward her. She held her power steady. A glow progressed over Vision as he increased the density of every vibranium cell in his body to fight back. He wanted only to face her, to see her.

“I want to know what you would choose.”

“Why would it matter to you?”

“Because… if you choose to run this time, I intend to follow you. Perhaps as I should have in the beginning.”

Wanda was not sure if what she felt, heavy in her heart, was anger or pity or something else entirely—she wanted to decide it was fury—and narrowing her eyes she answered, “I don’t need a protector, Viz. Go. Get out of here and I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

Stepping back, Wanda made a light bend and wave of her wrist. The intense density of the synthetic man before her rapidly unwound, almost too quickly, to the point of phasing him back into a transparent specter. She found it somehow easier to manipulate the way the stone held his every atom together—easier than the last time she reluctantly did so to save Clint from Vision’s serene wrath.

Lighter, lighter, now, until he was floating upward toward the ceiling.

“Wanda…!”

It was a clumsy motion—hardly the sort of grace that befit the philosophical and erudite Vision. She winced, trying to at least send him away carefully… but it looked like that was not going to be the case. His gold cloak was floating upward and obscuring his face and his arms were getting tangled in the ornate material as he struggled against her forceful levitation of his body.

“Wanda, wait!”

One arm reached out from behind the cloak, pawing for a bedpost, but phasing pathetically through it. He was halfway through the ceiling, when, from beneath the cloak, Vision called out to her, “Wanda…! Wait, let us talk about this. Pragmatically.”

“Trying not to break the floor with you this time, Viz.” Wanda answered.

“I’m still rather hurt about that,” Vision was nearly gone.

Wanda stopped and narrowed her eyes. She wound one hand back, low, and answered curtly, “I’m still hurt about the Raft. You never said a thing to defend me. You never even said goodbye.”

Forgiveness and empathy fled her for a single, bitter moment.

Lunging her hand upward, she sent Vision off and upward with far less gentleness than she’d first intended.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys have checked out the new Scarlet Witch comics because holy jeez, they are good (just as is the new Vision comic series!) That psychic place she falls into is definitely confirmed at this point to be the very same Witches Road from the new comics, because I just can't resist. It's a place that's there, underneath reality like veins under the surface of one's skin. Also, heck _yes_ , Agatha Harkness rises. With this new direction, Wanda now has a choice—stay with Steve in Wakanda, or break free and pursue the place this Witches Road comes from.
> 
> And godspeed you, Vision—what goes up must come down, even figuratively.


	9. Scattered Moments Shy of Infinity

 

 

Vision regathered normal density approximately nine kilometers above the capital of Wakanda. It was not unlike the last time Wanda’s grip overtook the Infinity Stone in his head. It hurt every bit as much as before, perhaps even moreso, and just as her fiery touch had rendered him before, his skull throbbed with some kind of psychic migraine he could only describe as neuroelectric hell.

His center of gravity was still off and he was still rising, though slower now, as the distance between them grew beyond her imagination’s reach. By inertia alone, Vision floated upward. He looked down and saw the stars cast with a trace of pink and lavender. He looked up and saw Wakanda and the sun rising on the earth’s horizon in the distance.

Vision was a ghost in the clouds to watch the rise of the sun and descent of the moon. That ache in his head took a long time to fade away.

In that time, he mulled over the idiot things he had said to Wanda. It was not like him to stumble over his own words or create improper conversational threads that still did not even near the intended conclusion.

_What conclusion, exactly, did you even seek?_

Vision found himself faced with that lingering question, the translucent _something_ in the back of his own mind.

She had a way of making him say things he was certain were not of any logical basis. Well, he corrected himself, she did not _make_ him say anything. But her presence was a certain influence that dismantled his grip on logic with ease. In the presence of Wanda Maximoff, logic trees were corrupted, _glitched_.

A glitch. A virus. A systematic dismantling of a machine, by program alone.

Wanda was right. She did not need a protector and he was simply proving time and time again that he was a rather poor one, at that. If pitching him into the lower atmosphere didn’t imply it enough, perhaps, the fact that she had _spared_ him far worse damage did. Was he simply stubborn in wanting to try again? No. No, fool, of course not, Tony was waiting for important data. He couldn’t possibly go back, not now, not with his secrecy compromised and Wanda acutely aware of his chance presence.

The sun’s rays broke over the horizon now. He stared, mesmerized, it’s light washing away his thoughts.

Somehow, this moment, with the trace of Wanda’s touch on his mind, Vision felt a distinct sense of having experienced this moment, somehow, before.

 

“Déjà vu…” Vision murmured to himself.

He watched lavender burn into gold and the gold of the sun burn white-hot over the horizon for a moment longer.

He faded back into full transparency and descended back down into Wakanda.

The remainder of that day was spent eavesdropping, gathering intel, learning what briefing materials T’Challa had for Rogers regarding the _Hatut Zeraze_ and the first mission planned to strike back against them in quarry twenty-two. It was a battle that neither he, nor Stark or the other Avengers would be involved in—the first battle of one small handful of decidedly _secret_ Avengers. The conviction within Rogers was admirable. Vision would have liked to be allies again one day. This schism was not agreeable.

Amongst the other Avengers, Rogers detailed to Sam, Clint, and Lang the mission presented to them in the nearing days—48 hours exactly. As expected, they were eager to pay back T’Challa for saving them. Lang was eager to help, “It’s not every day an African Prince lets me kick back at his palace with free drinks for a few days, I mean… I’d be a real dick not to help.”

“I’ll postpone my retirement for the time being,” Clint said, “…we’re still Avengers. We’re still needed.”

Sam was serious-faced and dedicated, eyes intense and fixed on Rogers, “I’m in, Cap.”

Rogers corrected him gently, “…right now, I’m just a nomad.”

“Nomad, huh? Well… where you fight, I fight.”

Wanda was not present. Steve did not press her for a response. In fact, his query did not even come until later that afternoon, finding her listening to the ripple of a stream in the palace garden.

“I’m sure you already know what I’m here to ask you about.” Rogers said, taking a seat beside her.

Neither were aware of Vision watching from far above.

Nor were either aware of the tiniest little spark of bitterness in Vision when Rogers took a seat on that bench that was decidedly too small to fit two people. But there he was, sitting beside Wanda, and she met him with a fair smile.

That bitter spark left a slight sting.

“Well, you guessed it right.” Wanda sighed. There was only the sound of the rippling stream for a moment. Extraneous noises picked up from the immediate vicinity included the grinding of a guard’s heel into the dirt as he snuffed out a cigarette and the chirp of a bird twelve meters from the two of them.

“You know, Wanda, you don’t have to come with us. Not if you don’t want to fight. After everything, I understand you completely. I was thinking about what you said. About Buck. I guess, maybe… maybe I needed that. Maybe I was being a little selfish. You were right, I can’t just say I support you if I don’t agree or understand you.”

Wanda’s smile was small, but it was there.

“You are a sweet soul, Steve. It isn’t like you to ground your mind on a foundation of selfishness. No. You _are_ the sort to try and understand. I respect that a great deal, you know. That sort of thing, it is… easier said than done. I have a hard time forgiving and understanding.”

“You’re young. You’ll figure it out.”

Wanda’s shoulders dropped a little as she repeated, “…young. That’s all it is, isn’t it? I hope I do figure it out.”

“Whatever you decide, you know, you’re welcome here. T’Challa wanted me to make that clear to you. You can stay with us as long as you need… and you know, we’d protect you. I’d protect you.”

She was looking at him, then. Vision was finding it difficult to remain transparent for some reason. Something about this scene was incredibly bothersome. Something about the way she was smiling at him was incredibly distracting. Something about his words were _incredibly distracting._

For a moment, as if caught in the throe of some glitch, his recording of the conversation became momentarily corrupted by a shrill cry of static. Wanda’s smile. Rogers had said something that made her laugh. Static. Not even he had caught what followed. Perhaps radio-interference. Vision blinked hard and fought to clear his mind. Stark would inevitably comment on that lost bit of data—inconvenient.

“After Lagos… after Schkeuditz, I…” Wanda trailed off, gazing back at the stream, “I’ve decided that I need time. Some kind of solace and deep meditation. I need to get my power under control. I need to _understand_ it. The truth is, Steve, I don’t trust myself.”

“You should, though. You’re so much more capable than you realize.”

“All I want to do sometimes is just… disappear. Fade away entirely. So no one will ever have to be afraid that the Scarlet Witch is going to get them like some _baubas_ in the night.”

Steve laughed quietly, “I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s… nothing.” Wanda reassured him, “I want to be an Avenger. But I want to be a capable one… and to do that, I know where I have to go. Somewhere… elsewhere. You know?”

With a solemn nod, Steve replied, “I understand.”

“Will you help me in that?”

“Of course.” Steve answered, a gentle arm moving around her small shoulders. She shifted into his embrace too easily. Going on, Steve said, “You do what you need to do… and if you need anything, kid, you know where to find us. There’s always a home for you with us, Wanda.”

She was looking at him in a way that made her eyes so bright, almost silver. Vision did not realize until then that he could not bear to watch any longer. This sensation was decidedly _new_ and it was hideous. A gross distraction from the mission. He left them both to wherever their conversation would lead them. Slipping away to elsewhere, he went over the particular chamber and schematics of the cryogenic laboratory that housed Barnes. Pass the time. He eventually found the facility’s base of security operations and mapped out the security lines weaving throughout and around the palace. Scan and save each document and device to memory, he reminded himself.

Wanda’s smile for Steve was vivid in his mind.

A hand upon a glass cabinet in an empty lab pressed harder than he realized.

The glass cracked, a single thick crack across the center forking out near the end into two smaller paths. He eyed the glass in shock—his hands did not leave prints, at least… not even a hand-shaped imprint of oils the way a normal human hand would. It was a disappointment, however, looking upon the crack he’d made in the glass.

He was supposed to be a ghost.

Fading away again, phasing through the laboratory and away from any trace that someone had been there, Vision repeated to himself— _he was supposed to be a ghost._

Thirty-two hours remained.

He did not dare go near the lounge and when he heard her voice laughing with Steve, with Sam and Clint and Lang, Vision faded into any other floor but that one. He never did catch the end of her conversation with Steve, nor did he particularly care to know what followed.

He did not care, he reminded himself.

In the early hours of the final day, Steve and the remaining Avengers suited up with T’Challa and they set out into the night. Wanda was, as expected, not present.

Vision rose up into the heights above the palace, watching the Avengers move in shadows, making way toward a certain quarry twenty-two.

That was when he spotted her, moving in a decidedly different direction.

This was Wanda’s escape. This was the way the witchling ran.

Vision watched her move in the shadows, clad in black, pulling a hood over her head. Any guards alerted to her movement were stuck with a gentle red light that dropped them to the ground in a state of quivering sleep. Perhaps it was not a pleasant sleep, but it was, at least, not death.

Twenty-three hours remained on the mission and Tony Stark would have loved to see where T’Challa lead Rogers. Twenty-three hours remained on the mission and Vision could think only of Wanda running alone through Wakanda’s streets, presumably en route to the nearest city in Sudan.

If he never saw her again, _never_ implied the existence of infinite time. Infinity.

Here, he was pulled between two distinctly separate strands of infinity.

Vision would either move or he would break.

 

* * *

Guess which fic has a sweet playlist now?

  
  
[ [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLsl_vGRYxWCp3WNepEqeGVH3QAEQ4-IoT) ] . [ [fullsize art](http://orig05.deviantart.net/6898/f/2016/245/a/6/playlist_01_by_kousagi-dag93iv.png) ]  


  
Playlist only goes up to chapter fifteen... because chapter sixteen and on will see the beginning of Part Two. AKA, The Part Where All Hell Breaks Loose. ;) Good luck, Wanda and Vision! ;)


	10. The Gossamer Thread Stray of the Web

Wanda had grown good at keeping her head low and the hood of her jacket high. With her face veiled, watching over her shoulder became second nature—Natasha would have been proud—and the few who threatened a spark of recognition in their promptly saw only red lights and the identity provided by a fake passport and card.

“Welcome to Athens, Greece, Anya Eisenhardt.”

Athens did not keep her very long. She was not there to sight-see. There was a direct rail from Artemida to Novi Mesec, and in a short few hours, Athens was long behind her by bus. Hood on at all times, thankful for the cooling autumn weather, Wanda kept her distance from other travelers—natives of Greece and tourists alike—head down, at all times. The language was foreign to her, not a single shared word picked up between a Sokovian tongue and Greek, but a flatscreen airing the news on the bus was detailing a certain prison break from the Atlantic.

One word she caught clearly amidst the Greek news anchors— _Scarlet Witch_ —Wanda glanced up from a seat by the window, beside a sleeping old woman. She tugged the edges of her hood a little further and saw the faces of Sam, Clint, Steve, and Scott displayed as the escaped prisoners were detailed—the last, her own mugshot, was marked with a greater deal of red text.

Breaking news—almost a week after the event, Wanda noted. Perhaps she had dodged a bullet by timing alone. Had these photos been released a few short hours sooner, she may not have entered Athens. Her face would be everywhere in short time. Anyone from the airport who recognized her would surely cue authorities to her presence.

She gathered enough from the tone of the broadcast that they were recommending the public to exercise caution.

Rightly so, perhaps. Wanda lowered her head again and fixed her gaze back out the window, at the Mediterranean coastline. Artemida was not far. From there, only a twelve-hour train ride to Novi Mesec followed. A plane ride would be nice, but the security was too tight… too much risk. She never did enjoy heights much, anyway.

With the Mediterranean in sight, Artemida was, perhaps, no more than fifteen minutes away. There was a time that her parents brought their family there. She and Pietro had been, perhaps four or five years old. However, Wanda had no recognition of this place or of this sea.

Wanda clung to as many memories as she possibly could from before her parents were taken from them—but this one, the holiday to Greece—it always drew a blank. Somehow, Pietro always remembered it in vivid detail.

He spoke of it often. Father had gotten some sizeable bonus pay from work and took them all to Artemida. They stayed for nearly a week. Pietro often took a dreamy cast in his eyes as he spoke of the rocky beaches and the way the sea gave the Greek air some kind of salty scent. He could speak for hours about the food, like nothing else he’d ever tasted in Sokovia or even Serbia or Bulgaria. Once reminded of the treat, Pietro would never shut up about gyros or souvlaki.

Would they both be there in that moment, had things been different in Novi Grad? The two of them running from the all-seeing eyes of the U.S. government together, hiding, once more, from the weapons of Tony Stark? Even after spending a year calling the man her ally, the trust was always on shaky foundations.

No trust remained.

No Pietro remained.

Not even Novi Grad remained, even a year after rescue and relief came to aid the surviving victims. Wanda had not found the courage to look back at Novi Grad—not through the shame of knowing it would still stand had she not been such a fool. Inevitably, the train to Novi Mesec would pass through it.

It was reasonable retribution.

Perhaps it was the anxiety of returning to her former home that fixed her focus on the pulse of _something_ coursing through her veins. As if her nervous system itself were a circuitry board, she was certain that she could _feel_ the scarlet lights inside of her pulsing and traveling in tune to the beat of her heart. It was unnerving—she hadn’t noticed it before.

The first dizzy flash had come on the plane as it crossed Egypt, en route to Greece. She thought, perhaps, it was her silly fear of flight that not even the Quinjet had shaken from her. Surely, she had reminded herself, it was just a mild panic attack.

But no. Even after arriving in Greece, after a two-hour bus ride, that sensation was still there, and it was growing. Something inside of her was pulsing with her very blood. Growing hotter, beating harder, making monotonous thoughts of each passenger not just _brush_ against her own psychic borders, but damn well _intrude._

They did not know it.

Nonie beside her had not said a single word, she slept the entirety of the ride. She dreamt of her grandchildren and a cat with orange stripes on its chestnut tail. Febe was its name, and it came to Nonie from her son last spring, two months before he drowned in a fishing accident. Two rows ahead of her, Doreen was trembling and biting her nails—Wanda could hear it, and she wanted to cringe with each crunch of dirt scraped out by Doreen’s crooked teeth—she was anxious about her hotel reservation. In the seat adjacent to her, across the aisle dividing the bus, her husband Peadar was thinking about a pretty blonde woman back home—Doreen did not know about her.

Wanda squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a breath. Meditation, even for the short few moments left on the bus. When she opened her eyes, she noticed a cobweb near her foot, hanging in the angle between the seat and the bus’s interior wall. Its delicate threads caught light and for a moment, was nearly invisible.

The bus let out near a busy intersection in Artemida. Wanda spotted the train station and headed for it, hands tucked deep into her pockets. She did not travel with much. A small bag with a few changes of clothes and the fake identification that Maryam had presented her from T’Challa and Steve. There was a sum of money included that Wanda found far too generous—but Maryam had insisted, T’Challa wanted to know the friend of his friend would be safe and accounted for.

A minor delay—she had arrived ahead of time, and there was an estimated forty-minute wait for the next train north.

Right, then… so she had time to burn. She could think of few other inconveniences to a person trying to keep hidden and spend as little time in public as possible. Find some place secluded, Wanda mused, find somewhere where nobody could see her face and just wait.

 She picked a table near the far end of the rail station’s seating area. Near a window that overlooked a rocky coast a steep drop below. The thoughts of others still seemed to seep into her head, unwelcome, and with increasing ease.

It was with the latest tide that she sensed acute _fear_ coming from somewhere. It came in a cocktail of aggression and curiosity, Wanda noted, as that foreboding sense tugged at her attention.

Listening closer, she heard that name carried on a distinctly male voice— _Scarlet Witch_ —followed by recalled training drills and arrest procedures passing through memory.

_Damned idiot, don’t you dare recognize me…_

That sense was coming closer, and she could hear chatter from that voice, aloud now, in Greek. She could not understand his words, but she could understand his thoughts, as well as the two others that were coming in on the same wave.

Wanda rose from her seat, not looking in their direction, and heading quietly for the rail station’s exit. The pavilion was beaten down by a warm sun. Her dark, hooded jacket was indicative of an unprepared traveler. She caught the stare of a concerned, heavyset woman sitting on a bench with two children.

Her eyes, her mind, Wanda could detect traces of recognition, although this woman could thankfully not place a name to the face.

Walking faster, Wanda made her way down a flight of stairs and toward the streets. She ducked into a crowd of tourists, making a beeline for the nearest alleyway. The three behind her were running now, clearly police, and they were calling out to her.

“Perimenete! Korítsi!”

“Korítsi! Parakaló stamatíste!”

Wanda glanced back over her shoulder—they were pursuing her now. One giving orders into a radio. Her stomach sank—she had prayed to make it to Sokovia without conflict—and she ran.

She fastened the straps of her bag to her shoulders and with free hands, rushed for the nearest wall. The scarlet lights burst forth, pulling her into the air and up for the rooftop of a small building. She ducked down once again into another alley, emptied of any people. Trailing through shadows, Wanda made her way north—there would be no catching the train, now.

She would have to make do with another mode of transportation.

Sirens echoed just blocks away. Wanda sensed there were more officers nearing her from different directions, called to the sighting of the Scarlet Witch. No efforts could reassure herself of control. She eyed a man climbing out of a dark SUV carefully and felt her extremities trembling. The sort of dizziness she felt back on the Raft was haunting her.

The man was arguing into a phone and dragging out a briefcase, entirely unaware of the woman watching him across the narrow street. He glanced at her once with disregard and continued to argue over his phone, _“De me noiázei—_ _to déntro ítan idioktisía mou!”_

Wanda swallowed hard. The sirens were getting louder.

_“Boreíte eíche kamía ypochréosi! I giagiá topothétise to déntro!”_ Another glance toward the sirens was all it took. Wanda’s hands rose from her pockets. With a flick of her wrists, as gentle as she could manage, she winced as the man was flung from the car’s open door and the keys left lingering mid-air, in place.

He was screaming when Wanda took the keys and hurried into the driver’s seat— _“_ _Mágissa! Kókkino mágissa!”_ —Wanda’s expression was one of apology before she sped off.

The tank was filled just shy of three quarters. It would be enough to get her out of the city. In the mirrors, she saw the man running after her, screaming, and then pitching his phone pitifully in her direction.

“I’m sorry…” Wanda whispered.

There was a small GPS monitor on the vehicle’s dashboard, flickering to life. Other effects of the vehicle’s previous owner included a mess of folders and a scattered hurricane of papers, heavy with Greek text. Numbers and printed spreadsheets mingled amongst the mess. What an unfortunate way to end an awful day at the office, Wanda mused.

Following the GPS’s small map of Artemida, she sped down the narrow EO85, until she passed a bright red “Trolley Café” and it was about there that a white and blue Skoda Octavia slammed into the rear end of the vehicle. Wanda gripped the wheel, panic crashing down on her as she was flung went into a full spin. She scarcely heard her own scream under the explosion of an airbag. After less than two, gravity-defying seconds, the earth smashed into its side, it’s roof, and the glass caved in around her.

Pain pulsed through her head in time with a frantic heartbeat. She felt a wet smear of blood trickling down her head. Wanda had barely enough time to gather her senses before the door was thrown open and heavy hands gripped her by the arms and pulled her from the vehicle. There was no gentleness, no mercy. She heard police barking loud, unintelligible orders that she sensed the meaning of— _get tranquilizers, subdue her, keep her under_ —opening her eyes, she glimpsed an officer in heavy gear checking her for vitals. It was the last thing he would see before red light flared around her body and flung him fourteen meters away, body and limbs as unceremonious as an angry child’s pitched ragdoll.

She tried to stand, tried to run, but her legs betrayed her, nerves like jelly after the surge of adrenaline from the crash. No matter—her powers, her scarlet lights would carry her to her feet. Wanda stumbled and shrieked when she heard the gunfire. They were using force now—they had not been issued any order to bring her in alive, Wanda knew. She kept a protective red light around her, a shell that just barely deflected the shots—but it was no reliable barrier. She felt one hot, metal bullet burn past her wrist and again, she screamed and curled into a terrified ball. Tears were spilling and her control was fast fading.

“Stop! Please!” Her screams were futile, ignored. Another bullet came dangerously close to her hip this time and she sobbed, “Please…!”

Fear was surging again, filling her mind with horrific, imagined reminders of just what she could do to these men. Several guns were ripped from the nearest hands. Two more were held down, gripped hard by the officers who struggled to keep aim—no matter, Wanda decided—she turned their aim on one another.

They would not stop. Not until she made them.

She bolted around, face drenched in blood and tearstained fury.

Some called out to hold their fire—conflicting cries rang out from officers yelling to keep firing. Bullets rained near her, each path just scarcely warped by the red sphere shining around her. She could hear and she could _feel_ their thoughts—fear, confusion, hatred, the need to _kill_ the _witch._

“Fine,” Wanda breathed, bitterly, “…fear me, then.”

Four of the closest officers were enveloped in her light, pulled into the air as scarlet energy burned through their skin and took hold of their muscles. Left bicep, right bicep, calves, quadriceps, she dug into these miserable pursuers with the sting of animal claws digging through flesh. She could not hear their screams as she constricted the energy around their limbs, and lastly, their throats.

All around her, vehicles and lamp posts were being ripped from the ground and flung back at them. Cracks were tearing through the structure of small, concrete buildings nearby—uncontrolled, she would pick collapse it all in mid-air and bury them under concrete and steel.

She wanted to turn and run, but that violent, blood-red _lust_ was guiding her, now. Her irises burned, and she could tell that they, too, had gone red.

More officers had arrived, behind her now, and it was only too late that she reacted to the sound of automatic rifles firing.

Good, just let it end, then.

“Wanda, stop this.”

Wanda heard the tap and clink of bullets ricocheting off of metal. Vision was there, between her and her enemies, and he had given her enough time to widen the reach of the scarlet sphere which suspended her. All of ignoring him, she flung the wreckage of the SUV at the new attackers, not stopping until Vision moved again, blocking her line of sight.

Only then, did it register that he was here, and this nightmare was terribly real.

“Viz?”

“Look at me, Wanda. Stop this.”

She shook her head, body quaking, “I can’t. It’s too late. It’s too late, I’m just what they say I am.”

“You are not and you know this.” Vision’s voice was growing harsh.

“I am, and I’m a demon, a monster, a witch.” Wanda gestured to the chaos around her, the storm of scarlet, of blood and of dirt. Feigning a weak smile for Vision, she said, “This is all that can come of my being in the world. We might as well quit pretending, Viz. You’re here to stop me or kill me, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“That’s your job, you’re an Avenger.” The sight of him was blurred through tears.

“And you are one as well, Wanda. Listen to me, focus on your ability and control it.”

“I can’t.”

He was approaching her now. Reflexively, she lashed out at Vision. He pushed through the red light tearing through his vibranium body, reaching out for her. She wanted to focus on the blue of his eyes, but her mind was screaming to throw him so far from her sight that she would surely never see him again.

“Please, Wanda,” Outstretched fingers neared her own, “…I know what you really are. It is not this.”

There was a certain curiosity in Wanda’s mind as she reached for his hand. He was still immobilized by her storm, terribly trusting and even more so, at her mercy. Yet, knowing all of that, he still looked at her with serene eyes. Her own fingers slipped between wiry, red digits, allowing herself to indulge in the sensation of his hand against her own. She had wanted to satiate the curiosity for far too long.

Wanda looked upward through the vortex of red light crashing around them. From her place, at the eye of the storm, she could see the evening sky was the color of molten gold and rippling fire.

He was closer now, reaching up with his other hand for her face.

“If you don’t stop this, they’ll die.” Vision’s words were quiet.

Wanda refused to meet his gaze, but oh, did she feel him boring through to her very soul. He caressed her face, nearly phasing through the site of a gash that still leaked claret. Wanda could hear the pained, suspended officers behind her screaming for mercy, praying for some kind of salvation that only she could grant.

“Clear your mind, Wanda.” He said.

Her mind was as ravaged as the scene around them—monuments to each individual aggression in her life stood proud in the storm. Stone visages of the children who first dubbed her “the witch” and shoved Pietro down stairs when he tried to reach for her in that ugly orphanage.

Dr. List, injecting hell into her veins, smiling as though he were absolved of every sin her hands would mold. His ugly, crooked teeth shone in the light just like Ross’s Cheshire cat grin.

She pulled away from him, cupping her face in both hands. Trembling, she sobbed, “I can’t!”

“Do you recall the first time you flew?”

Wanda nodded, of course she remembered, “…it was the first time this curse felt like a gift.”

That moment had been so similar to this one, she realized. The two of them, suspended above the earth, lighter than air. She felt a pull coming from Vision, a touchless, psychic embrace. Like she could drift at any moment through the unseen borders of his mind. Giving in, she let him guide her, just as he guided her into the sky nearly a year prior.

Wanda had closed her eyes, focusing only on Vision’s voice, his words, “You were crying, then, too, so afraid of heights.”

“You told me you would catch me.”

When Wanda opened her eyes, she saw herself, looking up with terror on her face after having glimpsed the ground far below. It was a surreal sensation—distinctly not a doppelganger, but rather, the very same memory from Vision’s eyes. She held his wrists so tight. Wanda could feel it from his sensations. It hurt. But he had never drawn any attention to it.

_“I looked ridiculous…”_ Wanda thought, watching herself in Vision’s memories. She was panicked, hyperventilating.

“Hardly,” Vision answered—she sensed the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

“I was so jealous of you up until that moment. Watching you fly so effortlessly. I was always watching you loiter around, two or three feet up, even indoors. You made me so mad, how you made it look so easy.”

The Wanda of Vision’s memory was letting go of his arms now, shaking, wobbling, keeping every fiber of her being focused on remaining weightless. The two of them lingered in the sky, far above the Avengers facility on a scarlet evening near the end of summer.

Vehicles looked like ants below them. To fall would be certain death.

“It was not my intent to frustrate you.” Vision’s voice echoed in her mind, overlapping the words of reassurance he had given her in his memory.

Her arms rose outward as she looked back up to Vision, this time with a smile on her face. Wanda could hear this memory with sudden clarity, _feel_ it with intense lucidity. In Vision’s gaze, Wanda laughed. In Vision’s gaze, her smile was an image sharpened and glowing. In Vision’s memory, the sound of her voice ringing out in laughter was synonymous with the first time he had heard music.

“I know… I was just always watching you,” Wanda confessed, still fixated on the way Vision’s memories held such eidetic lucidity, “I was so happy that day, that I did this. With you.”

There was silence that followed—silence surrounding, enveloping only the single leitmotif that was the melody in her laughter, her joy, her elation. For a long time, Vision said nothing. For a long time, Vision only replayed that memory of her glancing downward, for once, without fear—and then looking back up at him, laughing, _flying_.

“I… thought that you hated me.” Vision finally confessed.

Color began to fade from the memory. Wanda felt the sense of some kind of system warning ringing in Vision’s mind. The memory of herself, that smiling girl was laughing and reaching out for him again—it was odd to see herself smile. Why was his memory of color suddenly fading?

“Viz… why would you think I hated you?”

Then came the part Wanda could recall herself, with dread, from the day she first flew.

The fall.

“Because of what you said to me in Novi Grad.” Vision answered.

Wanda tried and failed to remove herself from his mind.

She couldn’t watch this part; she couldn’t relive that again.

She watched her happy, laughing self suddenly drop, panic, and in an instant, Vision was racing after her, arm outstretched.

“Wanda!” She heard his voice. Everything beyond them was filtering in as she watched and felt his first vivid memory of _fear_.

Between the glimpse of the fiery storm and cracking cement spiraling around the two of them, Wanda herself recalled what she had told Vision in Novi Grad.

The sky had been like fire, then, too, filtering through the trees. Her body carried the residual ghost of each shot that had ripped through Pietro’s body, severing the connection they had shared from birth. Stealing him from her, in eleven bullets.

Chaos was spreading into Vision’s mind, despite his efforts to fixate on the memory of catching her mid-air on the day she first flew. The memories of her first flight and the memories of the fall in Novi Grad blurred. He had raced after her, desperate not to let harm tear her from him—and when his hand clasped hers, Wanda could see only the forested outskirts of Novi Grad.

Vision had brought her from the collapsing city and in the safety of the woods, placed her terrified body gently amongst the leaves.

Vision had asked her if she was alright.

Wanda did not answer. She had only curled into a sobbing, miserable ball.

“Perhaps you did not hear me. I will adjust my vocal volume and repeat myself. Are you alright, Miss Maximoff?” Vision asked a second, and then a third time. His voice was monotone, each word and intonation identical to the last.

Wanda had lashed out at him and her small frame had wrestled free of his gentle hold, shouting, _“You should have let me fall!”_

The memories ended. Her presence in Vision’s mind ceased—and she was promptly ejected back into the miserable, bloody world of the present.

What followed was a haze as the scarlet vortex around them both collapsed and caved in on itself. The pull of every fiber within the concrete buildings around them became an aggressive wrench.

The buildings around them exploded into a serene, soundless flow of debris. The guns were torn apart, haphazardly melted into pieces. The remaining cars with their flashing lights were dismantled in the blink of an eye and then scattered into the storm.

Wanda heard the four, distinct voices of the men she had suspended by their limbs in what was once, a slow, scarlet pull. Four voices roared out in pain, and then they were silenced.

The dismantling and dismembering storm was over in a heartbeat. There was only silence, and only the two of them drifting back down to earth. There was a streak of blood stretching across the two of them. Blood that did not belong to either one of them. Wanda felt she was going to either be sick or simply collapse into an unconscious heap she prayed she would never wake up from.

Vision said nothing—he stared past her, his gaze empty.

When she felt his arms move around her shoulders, pulling her against him, she cried. He voiced no word, no sound, but Wanda felt the subtlest tremble within Vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, Wanda.
> 
> There's no going back, now.


	11. Indifference to the Toils of Gods

Pulling her body against his own, Vision’s mind pathed each major outcome. Stay and be held accountable for the bodies that were now rendered unidentifiable. Stay and watch them tear Wanda away from him again, while, once more, logic would advise him to let her go, to _say nothing._ She would likely not be taken back to the Raft—no, not after this clear and direct attack on other human bodies. The violence of each death would be read back to her in gruesome detail. Wanda would be lucky if she was given any trial—not that any justice would seek to protect her now.

They would call her a witch, just as she had said.

They would burn her alive.

He scanned the bodies around them and traced the vitals of those who barely survived the storm. Wanda’s intent had never been murder, Vision reasoned. Still, however, the toll of injured and deceased was rising with each scan of the area.

_It was an accident. An accident which I had a hand in by means of improper distraction. Their blood is equally on my hands._

_It was an accident…_

Sixteen injured critically in the immediate vicinity, eleven dead by gunfire or collision with debris, and four entirely dismembered into several pieces. Severe, but not life-threatening injuries in surrounding civilians counted upward of thirty-seven. The count would only rise the longer he stayed.

The repercussions of his mind’s proposed alternative echoed through his mind—the alternative course in which they both simply _disappeared._

Let the world come for them both, Vision decided. He would protect her.

“Hold on to me.” Vision said. Wanda’s arms came around him and together, they rose through the air, across the city that stretched on beneath them. They crossed the thin, pale line of beach before a deep sapphire of sea stretched beneath them.

The Quinjet was hidden on a small, fragment of an island not far from where he had detected mentions of the “Scarlet Witch” sighted in Athens and not long after, in Artemida. He could still hear the radiowaves lighting up with activity as relief efforts and medical teams made for the ugly scene outside the coastal city. The two suspects were lost to them.

Within the Quinjet, he guided Wanda to the first seat they reached, marked, _Romanoff_ , and she dropped into it in a weak, quivering slump. He brushed her hair back with a gentle hand and looked over the wound on her forehead. The increased neuroelectric activity explained a fresh nosebleed trickling over Wanda’s lips. Her breathing had stabilized and circulation appeared normal.

Wanda brushed his hands away, “I’m fine.”

Vision opened a nearby medical kit, if only to clean the dirt from the gash on her forehead, “You need medical attention. Is there anywhere else that you are injured?”

“It’s not my first car accident. I’m fine.”

“In that case, I’ll happily volunteer to pilot the Quinjet.”

Wanda exhaled and gratefully, she smiled. It was small and it was exhausted, but it was a smile. Just that small pleasantry on her face eased half of Vision’s worries. Combined with the warmth of her skin, it ruled out the likelihood of any further shock.

“Are you taking me back… back to Stark?”

She recoiled at the cold dab of alcohol on her wound. Vision hesitated to answer, still coming to terms with the decision he’d made when they evacuated the scene. Surely, there was still time to go back on his choice. Not that he would have done so for any good or glory in the world.

The gods themselves could come after them and he would find himself indifferent to their requests, with Wanda in his arms.

“I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

His words did not seem to offer any peace. Tears still crossed her dirt-smudged cheeks.

“I’m a monster. There’s nowhere safe for a monster.”

“In your defense, we both made critical errors.” Vision said as Wanda pulled away from his care.

“Don’t take blame, Viz. You didn’t do anything wrong… I can’t… I can’t bear the thought of you taking the fall for any of this, too. God, I’m so sorry… I fuck everything up, I destroy everything around me, I’m a fucking monster!”

“I am sorry,” Vision said, closing the distance she drew between them and continuing to dress her wound with insistence, “…I should not have let you see everything within my mind. I should have foreseen that some memories could be potential emotional triggers. But allow me to be the first to say that you are no monster, nor do you ‘fuck everything up.’ You have so much more potential for greatness than you realize, Wanda.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Tony was right. I’m a weapon of mass destruction. I’m no different from the missiles that destroyed my city, killed my family… The longer I live, the more intense this… this _curse_ becomes. Don’t try to save my feelings by telling me the world isn’t in danger as long as I’m around.”

There was not much that he could say which would repair the structural damage beneath the surface, he understood. The intricacies of human mechanics and repair seemed to be a mystery, even to humans themselves. Wanda cried easily. She cried for her brother after Novi Grad, and even still, months later when she saw things that reminded her of him—this much he gathered. She cried for Sokovia when she thought no one could hear or see her and she cried for the seven dead in Lagos.

She cried now, for the dead in Artemida, perished at her own hand.

“I promise you, Wanda… you will be safe… just as this world will be, with you in it.” Vision said.

The Quinjet had just enough fuel to make it to the safe house in the hills north of Asprovalta. From there, Tony assured him, further instructions would follow. Fuel tanks compatible with the Quinjet based on an older model were hidden underneath the safe house.

From there, the inevitable course of action would be to head back to New York, with Wanda.

To hand her over.

A ritual sacrifice.

The burning of the maiden at the hands of one’s makers to ensure oneself longevity, benediction, salvation.

Tony hailed him on the comms—and yet, despite beckons from the only thing he could describe as a father, a creator, he was largely disinterested in acknowledging these calls.

Wanda had yet to say a word since they left Artemida. Somehow her silence was louder than Tony’s repeated calls. It was deafening.

It was not until shortly before landing that she _did_ speak.

“…are you going to answer that?”

Vision finally opened the comm-link to Tony.

“Oh my god, heck, Viz, I was worried something happened to you. Everything alright? You and Wanda are all over the news right now.”

Vision hesitated to speak. He could hear Wanda suck in a trembling breath.

“Viz?” Tony said, “Viz, are you and Wanda alright?”

“We are… well.” Vision answered.

There was a pause in Tony’s oft-incessant flow of words before he said, “Viz, are you and Wanda alright? Are _you_ alright?”

“We are well.” Vision repeated, “We are unharmed.”

“Right. Well. Stay low for a while. There’s a bit of a mess to clean up now that the cat’s out of the bag. No one up here knew you were gone. I’ve got some conversational gaps to fill. Y’know. Since you’re showing up in Greece on the news and all. But. Y’know. Better caught in Greece than Wakanda.”

“There is an inevitable implication that we were aware of Miss Maximoff’s whereabouts.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”

“There is an awful lot of bridge-burning going on as of late. If I may offer unbiased advice, I would recommend the reconstruction of said bridges.”

“If I may offer my admittedly, highly biased and highly regret-filled advice, Viz, I would recommend you and Wanda just lay low until I figure things out stateside. PR’s going nuts. It’s not as simple as fixing broken bridges. One thing you’ll notice we humans do is we hold grudges. It’s stupid. It’s bullshit. But we do it… and what happened in Artemida isn’t helping any grudges against our witchy little friend.”

Vision had occasionally caught himself mimicking the subtleties of human behavior—a sigh, amidst appropriate conversational protocol. A stammer around a beautiful woman, one, Wanda Maximoff, although he was _fairly certain_ his nerves stirred by her presence were purely synthetic. Presently, he felt one he had counted three prior occurrences of in the recent weeks—a clenching in the jaw. Tightening. Averted eyes. Tight, hot fists, unseen by those around him. This present occurrence, however, was notably more complex than any other. More muscles tightened. Shoulders tense. Fingertips drumming against the Quinjet’s control panel— _had proximity to Stark memetically imbued him with this behavior?_

Tony did not wait for Vision to decide for words.

“Hang tight up past Serraiki. Don’t bother the townies. Lay low until I tell you otherwise. Don’t do anything I would do.”

“Understood.”

“And Viz? Keep her safe.”

“Of course.”

They came upon the coordinates by nightfall. Upon a hill, nestled in greenery and Mediterranean nature, was a moderately-sized villa of Tony’s favored contemporary design. As Tony had described, it was equipped to receive vehicles of an aerial nature. A prototype of Tony’s design that would later form the skeleton of the Quinjet I was, perhaps, the last visitor to the landing area. Just as well, in the basement floors beneath the villa rested an extensive collection of sealed, cool bottled wines as well as a stripped laboratory that housed several fuel containers identical to the empty shells within the Quinjet S.

Wanda hadn’t left his side, opting to follow him into the villa—locks were no issue to his ability to phase through the doors. It was only the underground facilities that required more brute strength to break through that proved an obstacle.

Even carrying the fuel tanks back to the Quinjet, Wanda trailed not far behind him. There were nervous tics about her that he had noticed in the year they spent together. She pulled her sleeves over her knuckles when anxious and over her fingertips entirely when afraid. Her limbs drew closer to her frame and her steps were smaller, but faster.

Upon the second trek back into the laboratory, Wanda hurried after him and finally offered, “I can help.”

Vision turned to her with a faint smile, “It is unnecessary. Perhaps you should rest instead.”

Wanda eyed Vision as she crossed beside him. With a motion of the wrists, the remaining fuel tanks rose gently from the floor. She looked back at him with the faintest trace of a smile. It puzzled him that she would offer assistance in refueling a vehicle that would only, presumably, return her to a place of suffering. But it was the action she took, and it would not be the first time she followed actions that made little sense to him.

By the time the moon hung high overhead, they had finished replacing the fuel supply in the Quinjet and had made their way into the villa. Vision had not paid much mind to the minute details of the residence until Wanda stopped at a photo, framed above a mantle.

“He was young in this picture… wow.”

Vision crossed back through the foyer and into a common area where Wanda examined the photo. He identified a younger Tony—perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. At his side was another familiar face, Miss Potts, her hair as sunny-red as ever and her smile equally as bright. The two bore a tan indicative of excessive sun exposure. The familiar freckles of Potts’s face were more pronounced over the redness of a mild sunburn. There was a certain distance between the two—contact only between the brush of their knees, the subtle graze of one elbow against another.

Tony had once told him about the days when Potts was just, “the cute new intern who wouldn’t give him the time of day.” All of this was a great many years before they became the tumultuous couple he was familiar with.

Drunkenly, Tony had once confessed to Vision, “Before we, y’know, were official, I loved that girl for years. _Years, and years, and years, and years._ She’d never been out of the United States when we met. Never even been to Canada. So I took her to Greece. I was a dick. I didn’t tell her it was a date. I just said I needed her to take notes and lots of pictures of me while I hiked the Greek coastline. For PR. It wasn’t a date, I kept saying. She asked me, the second day we were there, off the record, if it’d be a date if I’d asked her like it was a date. I told her that information was redacted. She had fun, though.”

“Pepper’s always been so beautiful. Tony’s a lucky guy.” Wanda sighed, placing the photo back on the mantle and making her way upstairs.

The context of her sentence implied that she was unaware that the two had, as it seemed, drawn their relationship to a close.

He recognized a sensation at this revelation as being somewhat “bittersweet.”

As Wanda drew a bath upstairs, Vision reopened the link to Tony and relayed to him the data collected from Wakanda. Poring over the photos, video and documents acquired, Tony’s response to Vision was through unvoiced data:

 

> >>> So Bucky went back under the ice, huh? Seems a bit counter-intuitive. But who knows, maybe he’s right about his decision. Steve’s going to be playing peacekeeper in Wakanda for a hot minute, that’s my bet. Fine enough, provided he lays low and sticks with Catman. As for the weaponry database, I’m concerned. Pretty damn concerned. This is stuff the Pentagon isn’t going to be thrilled about. Makes our nuke collection look like bottle rockets.
> 
> <<< Their reserve of automaton bodies, as I’ve detailed in Folder 1079-B trumps everything Justin Hammer had proposed in 2010. Should Wakanda ever be engaged in war, they would, no doubt, have an upper hand against their enemy in an unprecedented manner. My advice would be, simply, do not engage. Wakanda, however, does not seem to be a nation prone to action unless provoked. Even then, it appears that they have had an automaton militia since far before Hammer’s suggestion.
> 
> >>> Breaking my balls here, T’Challa. I’ll pass along what we’ve got to Fury. Fury will decide how to channel it from there. By the way. What the hell happened in Artemida?

 

Vision hesitated to formulate a response. From the villa’s patio, he saw a vast expanse of green hills. Short, dense trees bordering the rooftops of a small city, bathed in it’s warm, nightlife glow. Past that, the Mediterranean bay, dark and dwarfed under an ocean of stars.

 

> <<< Miss Maximoff came into contact with the Hellenic Police force. They followed her, as per their issued orders. Their pursuit escalated. Wanda stole a vehicle. Said vehicle was involved in a collision with a pursuing officer. Maximoff stepped out with minor injury and resisted arrest. Aggravation and panic lead to an outburst of her powers on a level that… neither of us had seen before. In the aftermath, many of her pursuers were rendered either deceased or out of commission.  
>    
>  >>> Send me visual and neuroelectric data recordings on the event.
> 
> <<< Is it necessary?
> 
> >>> We need to know what she’s capable of and pad the fort appropriately for when she gets back.   

 

“When she gets back…” Vision repeated softly. He glanced over his shoulder at the gold light in the second floor bedroom. Wanda was up there, perhaps still in the bath. Although he had made the decision to flee the scene of the crime, he had yet to decide, fully, if following orders was the _right_ course of action. Appropriate, yes. _Right_ , however, was questionable.

Or, perhaps, it was not a question of right or wrong, but merely a question of _want._

Wants were not needs, Vision reminded himself.

 

> <<< Understood. May I inquire, what data do you have on the outcome of the event in Artemida?
> 
> >>> Well. It’s not good. News stations around the world are broadcasting this clip of the ‘bomb’ going off. It’s censored in varying degrees, depending on where you’re watching it. It’s ugly. I’m sure you’re aware. The media machine, they’re really latching onto that image.
> 
> <<< It was not her intent.
> 
> >>> She quartered and dismembered four men, Viz. Don’t kid yourself.
> 
> <<< She tried to stop it.
> 
> >>> Well, she couldn’t stop what she already started, apparently. The whole world’s got that on a loop. Maybe she didn’t mean for it to escalate, maybe she did. We don’t know. I’m starting to think we never really did know her, even when we took her in from Novi Grad. I don’t want to see her go back to the Raft, but I also don’t want to see how they sentence her. People died, Viz. Count’s at 21 right now. From the buildings around exploding in a concrete hurricane there, the count is only projected to go up. 37 injured. People want justice.
> 
> <<< And what is it that you want?
> 
> >>> Don’t know, Viz. Not at this moment. Not yet. I don’t want to see Ross burn her at the stake like he’s pushing for, though. Then, there’s the matter of your being there to whisk her away. We’re doing what we can to spin it that you were already bringing her back to the Raft on a tip-off. Avenger-duty. But that doesn’t ease Ross breathing down our necks that you’ve got three days of your location unaccounted for and this mission that was not authorized. They want deets. Doing what I can. Stay under.   

 

Stay under. That was the last Vision heard from Tony before their link closed, from Tony’s side.


	12. A Slipcast Face at the Crossing of Two Paths

Two days passed since Stark advised them to stay in the villa. Wanda did not sleep much, although her body begged for rest. Sleep was difficult to ease into. The faces of the officers in Artemida were burned into the back of her eyelids, chasing away all want to shut her eyes. The nauseating anxiety that she could wake up in the night with a SWAT team kicking down the door and throwing a collar back around her neck chased away all want for sleep. No matter how much she washed her skin and hair, she still felt dirt beneath her fingers and smelled blood on her skin. Keep scrubbing, she thought, at least until she knew the blood she saw was her own.

Vision had said little to her in that time. She often passed him in the foyer, where he levitated above a dusty, marble floor in silence. He acknowledged her each morning just as he did back at the Avengers facility. As though, in his mind, nothing was wrong. Nothing had changed. The first pleasant inflection of his voice had caused her to wonder—for only a moment—if all of this had been an extended nightmare, and that she was really back “home” where everyone, Steve, Tony, Natasha, Clint, waited outside to begin PT.

It was a fleeting thought, with the slightest sensation of warmth. Afterward, however, Wanda found the serenity in his voice unsettling. Juxtaposed against the reality of where they both were, hanging on a thread of Tony Stark’s whim, all she could feel was a small candle inside of her slowly burning out.

Since coming off of the Raft, Wanda had little appetite and it interest in food had yet to return to her. Hunger didn’t start to claw at her insides until the morning of the second day. She hadn’t expected to find much in the pantry or storage—there was wine. Plenty of wine. It sounded nice, but didn’t seem like a good idea. From her guess, the place hadn’t been touched in at least several years.

She came across Vision in the Quinjet, entering it with a small knock.

“Just me,” Wanda announced, her small voice breaking the cabin’s silence.

Vision looked to be taking down some sort of notes near the control panel, reading and recording gauges and filling out the charts all the pilots were, as Natasha once put it, “stuck with” after each Quinjet flight.

“…do we knock in the Quinjet, as well?”

Wanda looked at him and thought about this, and with a shrug, answered, “…I just did it out of habit.”

“This knocking protocol is very intricate and situational.”

“Something like that,” Wanda said, pulling the switch mechanism to open the first supply cabinet she saw—this one was marked, ‘ROMANOFF’ and as expected, Natasha’s supply list proved interesting. The contents included a small array of handguns, some of which she could recall Natasha trying to walk her through.

A Makarov PM, an HK USP compact, a tiny PSS, packaged neatly beside it’s silencer and noiseless-by-design cartridges. Another layer of the ‘ROMANOFF’ cabinet had a heavy silver box that Wanda took little immediate interest in. The penultimate shelf housed a case with a disassembled M4A1, and finally, mercifully, the one in the end held a small supply of MRE rations.

“ _Ogromnoe spasibo,_ Nat,” Wanda grinned.¹

“If those were what you were looking for, I might have recommended you visit Steve’s cabinet, first.”

Wanda gave Vision a curious glance.

Prompted by her nonverbal inquiry, he replied, “…his ratio of weapons to rations categorically favors the rations.”

“Makes sense. Must be those biceps.”

The sound Vision made—some kind of strained, half-laugh, half-chuckle—might have been the oddest thing Wanda had ever heard. She was used to some of Vision’s reactions having a slightly artificial quality to them, he was still learning. This, however, was noticeably forced. She eyed him for a minute as he continued to note numbers and calculations on the clipboard and its layer of pages.

_Weird_ , she decided, before taking the MREs, the curious silver box, and closing Romanoff’s cabinet.

A year with the Avengers had been a year of military training that included getting used to MREs. The odd thing, however, was that Wanda had never expected to _enjoy_ them the most out of everyone on the team who had their own quips and jokes about the contents or even the protein-overloaded _Soldier Fuel_ bars. Maybe it was that she had never been a picky eater, maybe it was that she had grown up around Pietro’s cooking and knew it could be worse.

MREs brought Wanda fond memories of Clint. She stuck close to him in the beginning. Camped out training sessions, outdoor survival techniques, Clint was the one who taught her all of it, in some strange way, picking up where Pietro had left off.

He had opened up the first MRE she had ever seen, over a small fire and handed it to her, “My wife hates it, but I always keep a shelf full of these back home. We’ve got this saying in English—one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I tear up a little sometimes at a good ration.”

Sitting across the fire from them, Natasha wordlessly gulped down her meal in a way that both intrigued and amused Wanda. For being a woman molded from steel, it seemed, Natasha had a far more refined and even delicate palate then she let on. Wanda could always hear and feel declarations and sensations of mild discomfort from Natasha, even though she would never dare say a word.

Though she did recall, once, Natasha and Clint agreeing that, “they were better in France.”

When Wanda came around to the silver box, a short while later, she wanted to feign a guess at what Natasha would keep in the thing. Another gun, perhaps? A transistor of some sort? Wanda drummed her fingertips over its smooth surface and then unclasped the locks.

Inside was a panel with a screen, keyboard, and other interface devices used for scanning DNA samples, similar to a setup Wanda had seen in Dr. Cho’s lab. The screen flickered to life at the press of a button and in the compartment above it, beneath the case’s lid, a small veil of some translucent fabric lit up in a hexagonal pattern. The language settings were in Russian, but the Cyrillic characters were hardly foreign to Wanda.

This was a photostatic veil, or, as Stark had always called it, a face-stealing nano-mask.

Wanda lifted the sheet of delicate fibers from the case, intrigued by it’s cool, yet distinctly electric touch on her skin. The tiny friction passed as the device went from a near-invisible sheet to a color not far from her own flesh tone. On the panel, Wanda pored through its reserved DNA, voice, and facial structure settings. All of them clearly collected on the field by Romanoff, as well as some familiar names from a SHIELD database.

Cho, Helen. Hawley, Pamela. Hill, Maria. May, Melinda. Simmons, Jemma. The list went on for several other names which, like these (save for Hill and Dr. Cho,) rang no bells. She chose Hill and placed the veil upon her face. It bound easily to each curve and angle, refracting light and hardening over features Maria Hill bore which Wanda lacked.

One look in the mirror showed, in some surreal fashion, Hill’s face on Wanda’s body. She wanted to speak and test the voice masking system, but no words or phrases came to mind. This device was far too useful. It could be too easy to just… walk out the back door, make a break for the city, and disappear in the crowd.

Surely, Vision would have known what she was exploring when he saw her take the case out of Romanoff’s cabinet? Why would he run that risk? Did he simply trust her more than he should?

Perhaps he did.

Wanda glanced out a window across the kitchen and at the far end of the foyer, where the Quinjet resided with Vision inside. Vision with his odd, and inappropriate little laugh and his difficulty understanding “knocking protocol.”

“You’re not a very good prison guard, Viz,” Wanda sighed, hearing her words and her Sokovian accent in Maria Hill’s voice.

Wanda recalled that Stark had left a backpack in the closet of the master bedroom with some hiking gear. She could fit a small amount of rations in the bag she had seen.

From there, it would be just a quick trek to Sokovia, unnoticed.

She made for the back doors of the villa, past the dining area and the lounge. Out past the pool that sat atop a hill overlooking the hills, the trees, and the city on the Mediterranean beach.

It was better, perhaps, that the last she saw of her dear friend was his smile in the Quinjet. It was a better memory than his averted gaze before they took her to the Raft.

The name of the city below was lost on Wanda, never quite having gotten the hang of the Greek language or the vocalization its glyphs. Asprovalta, she was sure she heard Vision mention. It was, perhaps, a little over a twenty-minute hike down the hill, made faster with levitation-boosted leaps. She was not sure if there was a train station. Her passport and identification were lost in Artemida. She had only cash in her pockets. There was the chance that she could slip unnoticed onto a bus, or hitchhike with a truck driver or group of hostel-hopping tourists. Anything to get her north—Serbia, Sokovia, anything in that direction helped. When she made it to the edge of the city, she resumed normal running.

She ran for the majority of the afternoon, making it past the city’s outskirts. The motorway cutting through the countryside was, perhaps, the most uninhabited stretch of road Wanda had ever walked. The few vehicles that did pass her did not seem to notice her. Police that she caught sight of in the distance, passed without suspect when she dropped her outstretched arm and kept her head low.

They slowed as they passed her and the second who did so called out, “Korítsi!” ²

Wanda gave a faint smile and a slightly confused expression. The officer eyed her for a moment longer before calling out, this time, in a slightly more recognizable Italian, “Donna! Hai perso?” ³

Her Italian was awful. But she could follow his questions better than Greek.

“Sto benissimo!” Wanda called back, adding a shrug, “Turista. Parlo un po d’italiano. Scusa.”

The officer nodded with an acknowledging grunt, his vehicle still rolling beside her at a walking pace.

Cautiously, he added, in a pronounced accent, “English? Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Wanda answered, feeling oddly relieved to hear words she understood and grateful for Maria Hill’s face on the photostatic veil.

“You, uh, lost? Do you have hotel?”

Wanda gestured for the city in the distance ahead, “Nea Kerdilia,”—a silent prayer that she’d pronounced it convincingly enough—“…hostel. Friends.”

“I see,” The officer said, before offering, with a gesture to the passenger’s seat, “…transport?”

Wanda was not used to this sort of small kindness. She smiled and shook her head, “It’s a short walk. Thank you, Sir.”

Again, the officer gave a quiet, but acknowledging sort of grunt and before departing, told her carefully, “Be, uh, safe. There is witches.”

“I know.”

Wanda saw no other vehicles on that motorway for the remainder of the evening. When she reached Nea Kerdilia, the sun had long since set below the horizon. The town itself was hardly any sort of tourist resort. Nearing the city, she could once again feel the drone of voices within. She winced. The sound was not a far stretch from the buzz of bees whirring about in a hive. The consolation to this sensation was that many of these voices were pleasantly slumbering, dreaming about work, dreaming about commuting, dreaming about their families and television shows. Wanda took in a breath, doing her best to ease her focus away from the noise.

She was lucky to find a rather beaten-looking hotel along the road’s edge. Several rooms were occupied, but many of the remaining were pleasantly empty. A flick of the wrist and a small flash of scarlet was all the door needed to open.

When she managed sleep, she dreamt of a Mediterranean beach and she dreamt of Pietro, in fragmented, sunset-tinted images. Pietro’s face when they were children, covered in freckles, Pietro and dirt smudges on his chin, Pietro and their mother’s hand clasped tight around his own. His other hand was gentle around Wanda’s own hand. They were running and the sand was rocky and wet beneath their toes.

She could hear their father’s voice, but it was far off behind them. Pietro and her mother smiled. They both had the same dark hair as her own that had a way of lighting up like gold when it caught the rays of the sun.

Wanda could never remember the holiday she had spent in Greece with her family, but Pietro always remembered. Perhaps it was by his description alone that she could dream about it.

He spoke of their mother’s joy, often, as she picked up shells and pointed out at the rocky islands jutting out of the sea. Pietro had often mentioned how the way the sea rolled and curved reminded him of her long, wavy hair when it danced in the wind.

Rarely were dreams ever so peaceful.

She did not want to wake from it.

In the morning that followed, Wanda ate one of the several rations she had packed and changed into a lighter set of clothes from the abandoned wardrobe. After a cautious glimpse through the window, Wanda stepped out of the hotel and continued her trek.

Six hours of walking followed—clouds had blessedly rolled in overhead, carrying the promise of light rain. Just a small amount would be a gentle pleasantry from the heavens. She stopped for water at a fuel station, not averse to letting herself walk out with any items that had happened to find their way (by levitation) into her pockets or bag. A telekinetically tumbled over vending machine at the far end of the shop was a simple enough distraction to a clerk who _would not_ take his intrusive eyes off of her.

Slipping in and out unnoticed, Wanda took a break at the peak of a ridge that overlooked a rocky beach. Drinking up the water happily, she shut her eyes with a contented sigh and allowed herself a moment to listen to the waves and breathe in the salty air.

A half-hour passed before a man approached from the direction of the fuel station with a cigarette pursed between his lips. She wanted to get up and leave the minute she saw someone approaching—but the reminder that no one recognized her through the veil was enough to convince her toward a few more moments of rest.

That man that had approached—he was tall and fair, slight of frame, with slicked-back black hair. She took particular notice of the dark color of his eyes, so deep a brown they were almost without pupil. He wore a humble, but dark, grey suit, something that implied the sort of personality in which formal was their casual. When he spoke to her, his voice was thin and yet distinct in the way it cut through the distance between them with unnerving familiarity.

She heard and she felt _nothing_ in his mind. Complete clarity. Perhaps this was the first thing that intrigued her about his presence—the way the utter silence of his mind reminded her of Vision. Even at the temptation of prying into his mind, Wanda felt the sense that she would find little more than voiceless shadows.

He carried an air of true serenity, even in his voice when he spoke, “I can’t get enough of it myself. Even in a place like this, the sight of the sea is always quite breathtaking.”

Sokovian. His accent, though subtle, was distinctly Sokovian.

“It… certainly is something.” Wanda answered.

“That’s quite a talent you have.”

Wanda looked up at him. He stared forward still, smoke exhaled through the nostrils of a pointed nose.

“I’m sorry?”

“That little trick with the vending machine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

He scoffed gently and smiled at her, silent and almost _waiting_ for some kind of response. He crouched down beside Wanda and gestured to the fuel station a short distance away, “You moved it with your mind. Just like you moved those drinks. Had I been in your shoes, I may have taken what was in the till, but. Well. Lucky for me, you didn’t.”

“I’m afraid you have the wrong person, sorry.” Wanda made to get up and leave, but the man had a way of stopping her in her tracks with words alone.

“For what it’s worth, dear, I was impressed. None of my clients have ever moved more than a wine glass, much less a vending machine. Good form.”

“Your clients?” Wanda glanced back to him as she walked—he rose and he followed.

“Do not be alarmed. We all thought ourselves to be the only ones with this… gift. These gifts. Until we all come to learn that we are, in fact, not alone.”

Downward, the road sloped, and it was a steep dip at that. Wanda walked cautiously. He continued to follow, after tossing his cigarette aside.

“If you could forgive my insistence, Miss, I’d like to have a minute of your time? If only to remember that, indeed, our paths crossed. I hold tight to the truth that all paths cross when they do for a clear reason.”

Wanda scoffed, “It would be a waste of both of our time.”

“I beg to differ, you see, people like us, clairvoyants, telepaths, we all come away from every chance meeting enriched by the reminder that this world is far from mundane.”

“I’d rather it be mundane.” Wanda said. She heard his footsteps stop, and blessedly, she mused, the man seemed to give up.

But her own curiosity was what drew her to turn back to him, even after rebuilding that short distance she’d pressed for. He had already turned back to the sea with his wistful, charcoal eyes and tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. When she walked back to him, he eyed her like he was genuinely amused that she had returned.

“Sokovian or Serbian?”

“Sokovian. I had intended to ask you the same question when I heard you speak.”

“Mesec?”

He shook his head, “Wundagore, actually.”

Wundagore. Perhaps he was right in that there was a reason for their paths to cross.

“Wundagore,” Wanda repeated.

“Wundagore.” He nodded, fixing his focus back on the sea.

“…and what has you all the way out here, from Wundagore of all places?” Wanda asked.

He drew in a breath and answered slowly, “Oh, I was visiting a friend. I had hoped to speak with a dear mentor of mine before she passed, but… I was too late.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, no,” He said with a shrug, “…she is a woman of many lives, and, inevitably, we will cross paths again. She has an odd penchant for winding up in Greece, though. Every time. I guess it truly is her home.”

Wanda mulled over the varying ways to word the one question on her mind. There was a sense of quiet about this man’s head that she could feel was a result of mindfulness. She considered a trace over the horizon of his thoughts, but compared to every other human she’d met, she was certain that it would take a deeper look to make heads or tails of this man. There was an aura about him that made her certain he would know if she intruded.

He glanced at her, sideward, as the consideration crossed her mind. Had he heard? He narrowed his dark eyes and grinned, but said nothing before turning back to the sea and sky.

“Wundagore is a very small, very rural town in Sokovia. If you don’t mind my asking, after you brought up your _clients_ , what is it exactly that you do?” Wanda asked.

“I help those in need of peace,” He explained, “My dearly departed friend. That was what she did as well, around here. She was what some call a witch. But as I’m sure you’re aware, not all witches are malicious. But we live in a second age of literal witch-hunting, it seems.”

Odd enough as he was, he seemed to decide that was where their conversation was to end. Turning back up the hill, he began to leave. Wanda called after him, “Specifically. What do you do in Wundagore?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He answered, smug.

“Try me.” Wanda said, watching him carefully. He made a familiar curl of the wrist—a gesture not much different from her own. From his pocket rose, through mid-air, a pocket watch.

The man caught the floating thing in all its filigreed silver glory. Popping it open, he glimpsed the time, and it was shut again. Another dance of the wrist and the thing dipped back down into his pocket. Had Wanda not believed him before about his awareness of certain _abilities_ she had, she certainly believed him now.

“I bring solace to earthbound spirits. I exorcise the haunted.”

She never caught his name before he disappeared back over that hill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> ¹; (Russian), "Thank you, Nat."  
> ²; (Greek), "Young lady!" / "Young woman!"  
> ³; (Italian), "Woman! Are you lost?"  
> ⁴; (Italian), "I am fine."  
> ⁵; (Italian), "Tourist. I speak little Italian. Sorry."
> 
> Hopefully I didn't butcher it too badly! Lay low, Wanda!


	13. The Benign Addiction to Lachesism

The minute he realized Wanda was gone carried with it two distinct sensations he had yet to become familiar with. The first was clearly _fear_ , upon comprehending the possibility that she merely walked out when he had sought to trust her. Perhaps, at this point, she painted a clear enough pattern which implied she could not be trusted to roam freely. Guarding her as though she were a prisoner was categorically the last thing Vision ever wanted to do—it had unnerved him enough when Tony tasked him with it the first time, and the second, he only did so with the myriad of second thoughts pressing him to reconsider his orders.

The second was something else. He was not sure what it was and a database search of appropriate words among varying lexicons had yet to provide an answer. It was somewhere within the same disappointment that followed the breaking of trust, but there was something decidedly melancholic about it. He had never felt this before. It settled somewhere low inside of him, dull and aching and unassuming. Yet, at the same time, it was a thing with fragile tendrils climbing upward for his mind.

In hindsight, he would have described the emotions in a manner that seemed far more subdued than they truly were. Nothing about these emotions were subdued, however.

He took to the sky, transparent and as close to invisible as he could get in such proximity to the small, coastal town. There was no sign of Wanda within the town at any corner or core. Perhaps he was searching in the wrong direction entirely, and she had made off northward through the hills. How long had she been gone? Would she be safe? Would there be another incident as in Artemida? Was her mental state stable enough for her to wander, unmonitored—he scarcely wanted to consider the thought, although humans were decidedly fragile creatures prone to self-destruction, post-trauma.

There was a moment where Tony hailed him over the comm-link, but that call went ignored, with some bitterness. Just the thought of speaking with Tony aggravated him—just the thought of anyone trying to tear his focus away from finding her was an annoyance.

Throughout it all, he considered another option, perhaps the one he considered may have been truly in _her_ best interest. The option of simply letting her run. She did not want to go back. He did not want her to go back. Perhaps, he decided, as clouds moved in from the north, this was an event that was not without reason.

The cloud cover provided ample disguise against any eyes on the sky. It chased lost tourists into cafes and guided travelers into their vehicles after their day at the beach was decided to be finished. Perhaps it was the clouds and the minor sprinkling of rain that allowed him to find her, walking along a road alone, north-east.

What followed was internal debate—follow her and keep her safe from a distance, if only for his own selfish want for her happiness—or make himself known and bring her back into custody, this time truly as a prisoner. The latter option felt scarcely like an option the longer he watched her.

 _Let her go._ The truth would be that she simply took a disguise from Romanoff’s cabinet when he was unaware and made off into the public. Trust her, but from a distance. Tony would be furious. But Tony never stayed angry. The statistics arguing against her chance of a peaceful escape, however, beckoned Vision to intervene. Need played against want with the unfair advantage of logic.

She snuck into a hotel and she slept through the night, more peaceful than the previous nights at the villa.

Finding sustenance was a simple task, it seemed. She had the rations in tow and enough skill to take what she needed from fuel stations unfortunate enough to wind up in her path. With the photosynthetic veil, she had full conversations with tourists who would have otherwise identified her as the Scarlet Witch and panicked.

It was all under control. There was order in her break from law, and Vision found little want to disrupt it.

However, Wanda was getting further and further from their base of operations, and the time to decide could not be postponed any further.

Wanda was traveling alone under a small cascade of rain, three hours after parting ways with the last traveler whom she’d spoken to. She had taken off her jacket and wrapped it over her head like a makeshift shawl, although it did little to keep her from becoming soaked. He touched down on the road before her, by a distance of four meters. It took her a moment to react to his shadow in the downpour, but when she did, she doubled back so quick she nearly stumbled.

Her face was a most welcome sight. At some point as the rain fell, she had removed the mask—perhaps explaining the use of her coat to cloak her face—he had missed the sight of her soft features and a face reminiscent of the moon.

“Stay away!”

A cut, deep and incorporeal, the weapon, her voice weaving those words.

“Wanda, this is not a safe endeavor.”

“You know what will happen if I go back, Viz. I’m not going.”

“Forgive me for the disruption of the path you’ve forged, but you neglect to factor that when the veil loses its charge, you will be at the mercy of any eyes who look upon you. I estimate only 32 hours remaining. You did not bring the case. In that amount of time, the veil will be useless.” Vision informed, “I cannot stand idly by risk another event like Artemida, upon others or upon yourself.”

He watched her features wrench into an expression of pain.

Odd how he felt it, simultaneously. As if looking into a mirror, although he could feel his own features remain stoic. Perhaps some neuroelectric interference radiating from Wanda.

Simply that, he reasoned.

“Don’t make me fight you, Viz. You’re the last person I ever want to fight. But I’m not going back, not back with you, not back to Stark, not even back to Steve.”

Wanda threw down the backpack and her body tensed as her hands lit up scarlet.

“Should I let you pass now, I would be enabling catastrophe.”

“Make your choice, whatever it is, the outcome will be the same, the outcome will always be the same!”

There was something poignant in her words, in the drumming of rain on his skin and the way her hair tightened into curls when soaking wet. Dark curls clung to her ivory skin as the rain refracted in infinitesimal angles, the radiance of her scarlet hands.

_I would rather you dismantle me now, like some void, lifeless thing than pull you against your will from the path you forge._

“Viz?” Wanda breathed—she could hear his thoughts.

Vision lowered his gaze. The rain puddled in spirals on the pavement, curling around each rock and pebble as it carved through cement and dirt. Each stream rippled under the onslaught of raindrops and still, the current flowed.

“From one end of the universe to the other, adjacent, there is a distinct _pull_ which has latched itself to either side of me. In an expanse with no direction, no north, no south, I find that there are still distinct opposites that threaten to tear me in half, down to the smallest atom. Each atom, which, indiscriminately responds only to you, as though I’ve found myself truly a machine to be programmed.”

One droplet, and then another, and then several more until the infinity of them all slowed to a halt. Some inches above the ground, others, mere millimeters. The pouring rain stopped in mid-air, casting a kaleidoscopic aura of red through each beautiful hydrogen and oxygen bond. Was she doing this? Her hands were stilled at her sides as she watched with an expression Vision could not interpret.

“You aren’t a machine to be programmed, Viz.”

“Oh, but I am. I grow tired of following orders I disagree with, and here I am. I follow my programming. I follow my orders, even when given the choice, my choice is categorically never my own, but for the greater good. I find I dislike the machine it builds.”

“What is it you want?”

“I am no longer sure.”

She took a single step toward him, slow, gentle—the sound of her soles on the pavement were loud amidst the sudden silence of stopped rain. One step and then another, until she made to close the distance between them. His synthetic heart hitched up in tempo as she neared. His synthetic breaths, increased. In her presence he found himself to be a straw tower against an oncoming tsunami.

“You want to let me go, to wherever it is I go. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to let me go, at the risk of never seeing me again.” As she walked through the veil of rain, each droplet slowly tumbled aside and away, slow and jarred by her scarlet hold on gravity and reality. One hand brushed aside the rain as if it were a rippling curtain. His view of her was unobstructed, now, lucid and dreamlike all at once.

“Yes.”

“Trusting me is a gamble, Vision. You should know this by now.”

She stopped before him, her head tilted slightly back as their eyes met. She was so small and yet he knew full well she could destroy him with the flick of her wrist. He knew, full well, that he would probably prefer to meet his end in no other way.

“If you come with me, Wanda, you would, by that logic, be within your element. A gamble.”

“Where do you even plan on taking me?”

“To safety.”

“Stark could hail you at any moment and tell you to bring me back. What would you do? You know it would not be safety.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Please.”

“I let you go once and never had I felt…” Vision searched for the word. Various options came to mind. _Melancholy_. _Misery_. A _frustration_ with the gnossienne of Wanda Maximoff. Disappointment with himself for his inaction the moment she was stolen away to the Raft. What now, would follow, if he let her slip away again? Was an angry world much better than a volatile Raft? They want justice for her crimes, and still, passing the logic and facts through his mind, Vision could not bring himself to decide the deaths where anything other than accidents. That the persecution of Wanda Maximoff would be the murder of an innocent.

He had trailed off. She still awaited his words.

Rude of him to leave her hanging like that, Vision decided.

“Regret.”

“Well. You’re not the first person who’s said that to me, Viz. Don’t put me on that pedestal.” Wanda’s hand had touched his chest for but a single, blissful moment, until her words toppled the construction of a moment’s heaven. The rain began to fall again, one droplet at a time, and she stepped around him. Wanda continued walking. Numbness, Vision decided, had a unique sort of vibration to it.

“Wherever you go, Wanda, know that… I will protect you. I will not let harm come to you again. No matter if you are here or there. Forgive me for before. I am still learning to follow my own order.”

When she stopped, a semblance of hope filtered into his mind. Her head was low, and he could hear the sound of her breaths hitching up with tears. He had always known her as a sensitive, if not slightly melancholy soul. Her emotions were a deep ocean, sometimes glassy and tranquil, sometimes violent with breaking swells and turbulent waves.

The tie between them, now, was a scarlet cord that could no longer be severed. Not unless she intended to walk away with his very soul in tow.

She came back, her steps slow, her eyes on the ground. Vision reached up for the soaked curls curtained around her precious face. He realized then, that it was one of many things he had craved from her. But if he could only take one thing away from their chance meetings, it would be this.

Her hand rose up to cover his own.

“If I trust you, Viz, you have to promise me. Promise me I won’t be hurt… won’t be burned at the stake.” Perhaps he had taken a moment too long to respond—it was difficult to formulate appropriate responses around her, she was a distraction—and looking her in the eyes, he was locked into her wet, steely gaze as she repeated, “Promise me…”

“I promise you, Wanda. Always.”

On autopilot, the Quinjet had never been too far from him. In silence, they returned to the villa. For being such a long distance by foot, they cleared the distance back in less than an hour. Something about that bothered Vision. Perhaps it was the sense of erasing her progress in the short, meaningless press of a button and a high-speed glide over rainclouds. Each footstep was washed away, as though her short journey had been futile the entire time.

The idea of her struggle being for naught filled him with a distinct sense of disillusionment. With what, he was not yet certain.


	14. A Chance Which Becomes Inevitability

The villa was untouched since she had left. Wanda glanced around, seeing the open case still lying on the dining room table, and even the hooded black jacket she had unintentionally abandoned on the back of a chair before her departure. The villa’s stale scent was all too eager to embrace her. At Vision’s suggestion, she changed into dry clothing. She had washed and left her previous garments to dry—they awaited her with the only familiarity she could trust. Doubt lingered in her mind, that perhaps she was making the wrong choice in trusting him. But she wanted to believe, and so, she believed him.

When the rain passed and the clouds dispersed for the sight of stars in the sky, Wanda sat out on the balcony. With her legs between the bars of the railing, Wanda lazily swung her feet and counted each star overhead. It was not particularly that she felt restless as much as she found herself afraid to sleep once again. She disliked Stark and she disliked being surrounded by Stark’s belongings. It was just as she felt in the first days at the Avengers facility—but that had admittedly become the only other home she had known before their family had abruptly split. They would not be in this place much more than another day or so, she imagined. To what would she return to? Prison cell? Execution? Or something else entirely?

Vision vowed to protect her.

What could he even do?

_Trust him, trust him, trust him._

That man from the beachside cliff came to mind—dressed in dark shades, a long, narrow smile. That man from Wundagore, who had powers similar to her own (albeit untampered by Dr. List) echoed in her mind. His floating pocket watch and his awareness of her way of moving things with her mind alone. His words—that he helped those in need of peace. He exorcised the haunted.

That was a viable way to put her power, her curse, to beneficial use.

Somehow, she decided, she was going to get back to Wundagore and she would find him, and she would learn what she could do to aid those only she could help.

But what can of worms did this open? The implication that the spirits of the dead still lingered in this world? And if so, could both the ones who lingered maliciously be coexisting among those who lingered by some benign addiction to life and the living?

It was a question she wanted an answer to.

A certain presence jilted her from her thoughts—one which prompted her to look down from the balcony at a certain synthetic man on the grass below, staring out at the skyline.

He had jostled something inside her cold, chamber of emotions. A lock tampered with, and nearly cracked. His words and his face were a clear image in her mind, which she could not forget even if she had wanted to. There were emotions in his eyes—perhaps there had always been, since the first day he awoke on this earth. Everyone doubted it. There was a certain disregard for synthetic emotions, she noted, from Sam or Rhodes, or even Clint at times. She had brought it up to Natasha once, months ago, in one of their quiet talks.

“A mandatory question for the psych eval—of your teammates, now knowing them as you do after eight months, which do you identify with the most and for what reason?” Natasha had asked.

Wanda thought about this. She was always dizzied by the sterile white setting of these psych evaluations and the soft, icy voice that Natasha addressed her with for such personal matters. Natasha was always a woman of few words and fewer (visible) emotions. Wanda knew, _felt_ , that Natasha had far more beneath the surface of her porcelain doll face. But none would ever see it until she permitted it.

Mulling over the question, Wanda thought about each member of their small party. Steve was decidedly the furthest from what she identified with. However, he was very much what she found herself aspiring to be in many ways. Steve reminded her of Pietro. Of this, Natasha was aware, and it, perhaps was noted multiple times throughout her file.

Sam was welcoming and pure of heart. Near him, she felt as though she were being embraced by the sun itself, apt for a man who was invariably a modern day Icarus. But she was not a child of the sun as much as she was of the moon.

Rhodes was regarded in fond memory—but occasionally his opinions and thoughts seemed brusque and based far more in duty, logic, and his ideals of law. Even to the point where she could see him betraying her should the need arise if it meant pursuing his ideals. Stark was not much different—they were men who fought for the greater good, even if it meant damaging the world in the process. They were the other side to the same coin that was Steve and Sam.

Clint and Natasha were another coin entirely. Distinctly human and distinctly acting on their own grey-area values, neutral until neutral paths proved too costly. She found some kind of home between their indifference to the toils of the gods.

Then, there was Vision.

Scarcely visible, often unaccounted for. The most powerful force when they fought in Novi Grad, but now, for an inexplicable reason, subdued and vocally pacifist in nature. He sought to avoid combat and violence. Vision sought to watch from the sidelines, a sentinel peacekeeper, drowned in the noise of technology’s incessant flow of data. Every time he shut his eyes, quiet before that chessboard in the lounge, she knew he could hear every bit of data flowing through the digital networks built by man.

“Vision,” Wanda had told Natasha, “…of all of us, the one I identify most with is Vision.”

Natasha nodded and took note, “Elaborate.”

“We both hear everything around us. We both feel everything around us. Everything about this world is foreign, and the punchline seems to be that we are both on the outside looking in. We are both souls that would not be in this world without man’s intervention.”

He had emotions in his eyes that no one recognized— _he’s synthetic and he’s ambivalent_ , Clint had said.

Wanda had always recognized a great deal of emotion in Vision’s eyes. When the rain stopped around them before, she saw fear that become clear as she neared him. There was vulnerability that mirrored her own.

“When you say that you are both souls who would not be in this world without man’s intervention, what do you mean, exactly?” Natasha had asked during that psych evaluation.

“My brother was born twelve minutes before me. When I came into this world, they thought I was lost. I had been asphyxiated by my own umbilical cord. I am alive by resuscitation and medical intervention. In some regard, I feel that I never quite was born into the world of functioning human beings, and yet, like Vision, we are both here at their mercy and invitation.”

“Invitation…” Natasha repeated, her aura intrigued.

Wanda nodded, “Yes. Have you ever heard the saying that the dead cannot be let into the world of man unless they are first invited? We speak of it a lot in Sokovia. Not to invite the dead in. Pietro told me not to be afraid of those words, because, when he was born, he invited me to follow.”

“For what it’s worth,” Natasha said, eyes still fixed on her paperwork, “…I’m glad he invited you.”

A smile had formed upon Wanda’s lips.

Natasha often filled Wanda with a subtle sensation of happiness. Welcome. She was not much different from Clint.

“We stand among the living as guests.” Wanda had told Natasha that day, regarding herself and Vision.

“Vision notes this,” Natasha smirked, imitating his low voice and the distinctly British accent he had inherited from J.A.R.V.I.S., _“…it is a privilege to be among them.”_

Wanda laughed.

And there he was, almost half a year later.

There they _both_ were, hidden on the coastline of northern Greece, at a crossroads. Together.

“What do you see up there, Viz?” Wanda said.

“Space.”

Wanda could not help but shrug—not the answer she expected from his typically philosophic self, but he was not wrong.

Vision added, as though correcting himself, “Space, and I believe what may be the onset of moral nihilism. I am unsure if the end result will be ego death and an actualization of absolute humility, or simply ambivalent existential arrogance.”

“Fair enough. You should join me up here.”

Vision looked back up at her, silent.

Wanda gestured for him to come, “Get up here, Nietzsche.”

He rose slowly by levitation and phased through the bottom of the concrete balcony until he sat beside her. Vision said nothing, but simply looked at her. Wanda was not sure how much she enjoyed the fact that the way he looked at her could make her cheeks burn. Now was not the time— _now_ was never the time. But he was staring and his gaze had a way of burning away her anxiety.

“I am happy that you are back, Wanda.”

“Well. I’m glad you’re happy… but I’m still afraid.”

“I understand.”

He did understand. Of this, Wanda was certain. But it did not change the fact that, in all likelihood, she was going to be taken back to Stark and she would be tried for her crimes in Artemida. Perhaps it was what was right—perhaps that was the truest way to exorcise the ghosts in her mind, ghosts lingering from Artemida.

At least that way, there would be no more destruction.

No more chaos.

“What happened on the Raft? Particularly, when Stark visited. Was he aware of what you experienced?”

The question came like a blow to the gut. Wanda had not been ready to be reminded of the Raft, much less, by Vision. She hesitated to answer, but upon considering the memory, the details, perhaps she was ready to speak of it to someone. Maryam, back in Wakanda, had tried to ask her about the events—Wanda had said little to nothing on the matter and Maryam respected that.

“Well. The Raft. Where do I begin?” Wanda made a faint scoffing sound and leaned against the bars of the balcony. Her feet hung limp below them.

“If it is not a matter in which you are ready to speak of, please forgive me for inquiring.”

“No. It’s alright. Without going into a lot of detail, it was… it was pretty bad. I didn’t realize how involuntary half of my powers were until they put this collar on me. This thing that sent a shock through my body, mostly in my brain, every time my thoughts strayed too far. Far enough that they could brush against someone else’s. At first, every time the guards walked by, my mind would just… I guess, open up. Open up and listen to their thoughts and their inner voice and their memories and all of their priorities for the day. That’s what most people think about, I notice, is their list of priorities. People always seem to be chasing this endless to-do list. After the collar came on, if I got too close, all I got was pain and this static screeching in my skull. At one point, I thought… this was not fair—the way my mind absorbs everything around it, it’s as involuntary as breathing. But all I could do was hold my breath.”

Wanda caught herself nibbling at her thumbnail. She quickly stopped.

Continuing, Wanda said, “So I held my breath. As long as I could. And I lived through it. Steve rescued all of us. I never expected Tony to, even when I felt his presence on the Raft. But I did… I did hope that he was not alone. That, that just maybe, you were there with him. He never came within so many feet of me. Perhaps it was best he kept his distance. I had so much rage back then. I was coming to terms with the Raft as my new reality. By the time Steve arrived, I was considering staying there. The world would be safer without me involved.”

“I beg to differ.”

“How so? Even after Artemida, you still beg to differ?”

“I do. For every great destructive force, there is the potential for protective, even creative force. In you, I sense more light than dark.”

“I wish I could say the same, Viz. But you always were an idealist. Nihilism wouldn’t suit you. Throughout it all, though, it got me to meditate. I meditated in a way I never had before. It took me somewhere else, where I did not feel any pain or fear. I want to find that place again.”

“You will find it. I am sure.”

Wanda feigned a smile—she was sure she would find the Witches Road again through meditation. Falling into it had almost become like second nature for a moment. But it had been a while since she allowed herself the luxury. In that time, she found that she wanted to find that place in reality.

Not even sleep or the promise of dreams held much allure to her those days.

With Vision beside her, she sensed the thoughts running through his mind. The distinct thing about Vision’s mind was that it was organized. Structured. Thoughts were somehow warm and fond of the world he perceived and yet there was a removed coldness about his perceptions. Even now, she could feel the way he took in the sight of her—there was visual focus on her eyes, her face, her lips, her bare shoulders and how small they had become since she’d come out of the Raft. He saw fatigue and malnourishment, and somehow, she sensed, his own perception of _feeling_ involuntarily mirrored her stress.

Pietro was the only other person she noticed such a pattern in. Of course, she had always reasoned, they were twins. Of course they would share similarities and react accordingly when one or the other was injured or withered. Dr. List had separated them during his trials and tests. The burning injections and exposure to the manipulated stone and all its sorcery had been experienced alone, separate from Pietro. But in the few moments she crossed paths with him, seeing the shadows under his eyes and the bruises on his face, his shoulders, she felt each pain with him.

Of course, she reminded herself, they were twins—they shared everything, from the beginning until the end.

Except that, she came to learn that this was not true. They shared everything, until _his_ end.

For the first time in over a year, she did not feel alone, _severed_ from the flow of warm blood and the pulse of a heart that beat in time with her own. The heart and pulse that resonated with her own, now, was distinctly synthetic, but it was _there_ , and to her, it was _real_.

“You are fatigued. You should rest.”

Wanda conceded this truth, hesitantly, “Sleep is… difficult these days. My mind does not allow for much peace. Always, even in meditation it seems, there is something after me.”

“Then hide.”

A small laugh escaped her, as she looked at him—he looked very serious in this abstract suggestion, and he added carefully, “In my mind. You may hide there.”

There was something soothing about his mind. It’s order, it’s peace, it’s serenity—all of which carried an allure that sought to draw her in. His mind had so many rivers of thought coursing through it, each stream of infinite depth. There were no undercurrents threatening to pull her under, provided she did not stray too deep into the pool where all rivers crossed.

“I… I couldn’t.”

“As I said before. You may look again. Remain as long as you need.”

Was it truly a possibility? Hiding away in his mind, far from the fears of her own, until she let sleep draw her home?

She allowed herself to rest her head against his shoulder. She felt the subtlest tremble, but it was fleeting. Gone before he was even aware of it, perhaps.

His thoughts were all compartmentalized, orderly, tidy. She was not merely being poetic in describing his headspace as a place of many tranquil rivers. Each trail of thought and its extended reaches flowed steady and with purpose. These were rivers without rapids, blending into one another with the utmost gentleness.

Closing her eyes, she gave in to Vision’s invitation.

It was a unique sensation—falling into another’s mind en route to the blessed release of sleep. Merely passing through, as she was, there was the question in her mind that this must be what phasing through walls felt like. A freefall through a vast sky, among rivers nonsensically carving through the air—each molecule of hydrogen and oxygen merely a symbol for data, projected by her own mind. Or was that his own choice in manifesting an image of information? In Wanda’s own mind, she recalled, information would be personified as porcelain dolls with moving mouths to recite whatever secret each bank held.

She could feel herself letting go of her hold on a conscious body—at that point, she was a descending spirit drifting through another’s mind. As she slipped through wavering veils of light and river, Wanda was careful not to touch or reach out for anything that was not her own. She was not there to observe, merely to hide and find solace in the muted silence of a world that was purely vision and image.

Perhaps it was a side-effect of his synthetic nature—a human mind had a multitude of voices running through it. The voice of the self, the voice of what some psychology described as an Id, an Ego, a Superego. Criticisms, anxieties, wants and needs conflicting in constant debate—Vision had none of this. Just silence. She thought she could hear a distant pulse of _something_ , but perhaps it was just an echo from within her own mind.

Wanda only came to a stop when she landed softly on a vast, glassy surface. She had fallen far, far from the blue skies and rivers that cut through humble white clouds. Down here, she wondered if she had perhaps fallen too far. Become _too_ hidden away from the world.

Beneath the glassy surface, there was the ripple of black waves, crashing water sloshing together in a great mass like a storm over the Atlantic. But it was all so carefully _contained_ beneath the glass she knelt upon.

Bioluminescent lights tumbled through the tumultuous waves, like moving stars swaying on a night sky through intoxicated eyes. It was beautiful, Wanda thought. Under her fingertips, touching the glass to steady herself, there were small gold ripples that flickered to shining life before fading away. Where she stepped, these ripples pulsed.

She stood and looked upward, watching the sky from which she fell begin to change and reconstruct itself. Darkness spread, with a cast of distant, glittering stars and something else, something far and yet somehow familiar. Far-off threads, shining as gold as the sun against the black sky, yet never bright enough to illuminate that small universe. They were far and they were growing in number until the sky became a vast, beautiful web. Each thread gravitated toward a certain light at a distant core of the sky.

Wanda fixed her gaze on this core—it was certainly like some kind of sun burning in the inky blackness of space. Were the threads winding into it or _from_ it, she wondered? She walked toward it. The glass beneath her feet looked decidedly flat, but with each disorienting step, she felt it rise and fall, curving to follow the waves of the ocean beneath it.

In this place, she felt truly as if she was separated from whatever malignant black cloud had followed her throughout her life. It was a peaceful meditation she did not want to end—an accidental exorcism, of sorts.

The glass plane she walked upon was taking a notable rise, like a hill, pulled upward toward that golden sun in the distance. Wanda would not have seen it until she rose with every step—or rather, was it that she was rising in elevation, or that the flat world behind her was simply curling upward behind her? Thinking too much of it induced mild vertigo.

That was when she noticed a subtle crack in the glass, clicking downward, moving progressively from the top. She wondered if she should find fear in this? The crack cut by with a soft groan, until it reached out into the infinity behind her. Wanda eyed it for a moment before looking upward toward its source. At the top of the hill, she saw another figure, a shadow, features obscured by the brightness of the sun above.

The shadow was turning to her, a glance over the shoulder at first, before a full shift to face her.

Still, she could not make out his features—Vision, she thought. Perhaps she’d gone too far and found a part of him wandering the depths of his own mind.

Something, however, did not feel right.

Her lips moved to form his name, but her voice was muted.

The figure’s head tilted gently to the side, a motion so subtle she may not have noticed it had he not been such a stark shadow against the sun behind him.

She heard the glass crack again beneath her, with a groan. Another loud warning, like ice over a frozen lake threatening to give way. Panic filled her too late. Before she could react again, the glass shattered.


	15. The Chrysalis of One's True Nature, Pierced

Wanda had awakened in the early hours of the morning with a startled gasp. She grasped at the blankets and thrashed her arms for a moment as though in the midst of some freefall. Vision broke from his meditation quickly and crossed the room to be at her side.

“You had fallen asleep on me. So I brought you here to rest.” Vision explained.

She gave a tired nod of sleepy comprehension and her breaths began to steady. A slender hand slipped through unkempt brown curls before she rested her cheek against her palm.

“Thank you, Viz.”

“Of course.”

“What… what was that?” Wanda asked slowly.

“What was what?”

“I don’t know… maybe when I fell asleep, I started dreaming and that’s all it was. I saw a lot of… open space. I saw this star or this sun. I think I saw you in there. Then I was falling.”

None of that imagery rang a bell or made much sense to him. He could not recall feeling Wanda’s presence in his mind, really. It was difficult to discern whether it was some neuroelectric anomaly or simply her own mind filling gaps in visual information.

“Perhaps just a dream. Was it a bad one?”

She looked as though she was pondering this before she shook her head and answered, “No. Not really. Falling is never fun, but… that might have been me, I guess.”

He had not realized until that moment that he had taken her hand in his. Nor had he realized until that moment just how close they were, a short distance identifiable from romance novels and films in the database of his mind—research on the more saccharine side of human interaction. In films and even described in poetry, this was particularly the distance that would lead to a distinct breaking of personal barriers—a reach for the unification of trust, a display of affection, a kiss.

 _“What is it you want?”_ Her voice echoed in his memory, from approximately one hundred and ten days prior. The last peaceful moment they had shared together before the civil war that had divided the Avengers. The last moment he held on to before she had been taken to the Raft. What was it he had wanted, she asked back then—they were in the kitchen, and he had extended an arm, gently blocking her way out. Stark had instructed to him that morning, do not let her leave. Following those orders had sickened him.

What had he wanted—he had wanted to let her go, let her be happy, let her be free, let her do whatever it was that made her smile the way she did. He wanted to see her greet him when she returned, with her crescent moon grin, having found what would have definitely been paprika. He wanted everyone to see the Wanda that he saw—there was too much peaceful joy and turbu͕̠̙͖l̞̼e͇̼̰̜̟̗̯n͜t̺̱̝͍̜̹͞ͅ— l͚e̙̱̰̹̠̮͎x̺̪͈͝i̤̖̤̠̻c̶o͕̰͡n̡̻̖̺͔̘̘͍̘͘͠ ̛̦̖̪̲̳̕b̟̜̪͙̘̘̲͢a͠͏͉͍͚̠̱̪̲n̲̱̕͞͠k̸̶͚̟̦̤̟̙̱͉̖͜ ̴͈͇͠ͅè̙̥̤̟͙̥͈̯̗r͔̣͙̻̳͉͎̣͡r҉͏̝̳̞̱̞̭̻̗̤̗̀͝ͅͅo̶̡͈̹̣̻͟r̷͏̴̙͓̯̲̲͍̩̥̠̤̪̼͔͘͡ͅ—

Vision hesitated. Something was wrong.

 _“For people to see you… as I see you.”_ He had answered.

No identifiable memory corruption.

However, the sensation prompted Vision to shift away from Wanda. This was odd.

A gentle pull from his thoughts came in the form of Wanda’s hand tightening around his. She stared up at him, wordless, a slight part between her lips. She was beautiful, body half-obscured by shadow, half-illuminated by a moon just shy of setting on the horizon. This was the goddess, eclipsed.

“Viz… you look a bit spaced out, there.”

“I seem to have gotten lost in my thoughts.” Vision confessed, feigning a smile.

She leaned closer to him, closing the distance, eliciting his response—a quick inhalation—and she stopped just close enough for their cheeks to brush. Her arms were around his shoulders, an embrace, a blessed, intoxicating embrace that was her touch. Involuntarily, his eyes slipped shut, and his own hands moved up along her slender body, _holding_ her in a way that had crossed his meditative mind in the only way dreams could come to a synthetic being that did not sleep.

“Whatever happens after this, Viz, I just want you to know that… I’m glad you were here with me. Maybe it’s a little crazy, but… without you, I might have fallen apart.”

 _“Wi_ _̵tho_ _҉u_ _̷t you, I_ _̵w_ _͜ill_ _͟_ _̴fall_ _̷ a_ _̧p_ _͘a_ _̛rt_ _͝._ _͢ ”_

Vision was not sure where that thought had come from. A distinct presence that was not his own. The want to pull away was drowned out by the want to feel her lips against his own. A sense of déjà vu, her touch, her breath, her skin warm against his own, all in the shadow of a sense of entrapment. They could go nowhere but here. Familiar enough, he thought to pull away—and a voice within his mind, deciding him a fool, urged against it. So he did not pull away.  

There was some kind of selfishness inside of him that had formed a chrysalis. As his fingertips traced the small of her back and rose higher, across the angle of her shoulder blade, he decided that he would give anything to seal this one moment in time for eternity.

Let the chrysalis be pierced and let whatever grew within be free to tear its way out.

  _Allow me this selfishness. Allow me this one selfishness._

He could feel her fingertips cross along his shoulder, the side of his neck, tracing up across his jawline. When she pulled away just enough for him to see the smile on her lips, he, too, smiled. Her eyes were two, wondrous, moon-shaped pools in which he would happily sink for all eternity.

Somewhere at the bottom of these pools was a sensation of _finding_ a thing he had never been intended to find, and yet, it was there, waiting for _him_.

“Viz… please don’t let me fall.”

“Never again.”

She was the first to move—and her lips were a gentle brush against his own, like silk, like the sky, like a river that made no sound even at its most violent rapids. She did not move slow, her kiss impassioned with distinctly human desire that drew him in to the promise of something that was clearly _not synthetic._ She could pull him to the ends of the universe and he would follow, happily, never questioning a death by frozen entropy, if only he could share it with one, Wanda Maximoff.

Prior to that moment, his most precious memory of her was the way she had laughed at his attempts for humor, the way she smiled when she said his name—the one that she had first referred to him by, three letters, V, I, Z. After which, those moments faded into the smile and the starlit glitter in her eyes when she pulled away from his kiss. The sensation that the cherubic witchling had blessed him with lingered in his memory—that moment she made him feel _real_.

He let her slip back into the blankets comfortably, craving the taste of her lips again, sweet, soft, _human_. She bid him goodnight. This scarlet sensation she had burned into his lips would do. If that would be all he had of her for the duration of eternity, at least it was this.

Vision slipped away from her touch, levitating back to his sentinel point, fixed just outside the room in which she slept. The moon eventually set, and the sun rose. The day brought with it a solemn breeze, cold and hinting at the coming of autumn.

With one kiss, Wanda had broken him—and Vision decided, he would have it no other way.

There was a saying that crossed through his mind over the course of that morning and afternoon. It was a saying that Tony often recited, that came to mind whenever he glimpsed Wanda walking through the villa, lost in her own world.

 _“Love makes a fool of us all.”_ Tony had said.

Indeed, it did.

That was the missing point of his database—there, but unacknowledged, locked away, identified as a viable _threat_ to subsequent operations. A virus.

The sixteenth hour of the day came, and it was at that time that he received a call from Tony. It would be the first Vision answered after disregarding the ones that came during his pursuit of Wanda.

 

 

> >>> Oh, God. You’re alive. I was a little worried for a minute.
> 
> <<< Your worry is wasted on me, Sir.
> 
> >>> We had that talk, Vision, no more “Sir.”
> 
> <<< Of course.
> 
> >>> We’ve figured out what to do with all this. It wasn’t easy, and it’s not gonna be easy. But it’s better than what they originally wanted with Wanda. We bought ourselves time and we made good on it.
> 
> <<< What did they originally want with Wanda?
> 
> >>> Not gonna sugarcoat it. The opposition—Ross—wanted to push for a death sentence. We talked them down. Ross pushed for a life sentence on the Raft. We know Ross. He wants to use her for research. No better than Dr. List and Hydra. So we fought it. She’ll inevitably have to serve time for the deaths in Artemida and, retroactively, Lagos. But we can keep pushing for her term to be shortened. She can push for it. At this point, we have to prove that she’s not a weapon.
> 
> <<< And do you believe it? That she is not a weapon.
> 
> >>> I believe she’s a human girl, as human as the rest of us who deserves human rights.
> 
> <<< That does not clearly address the question, whether or not you view her as a weapon.
> 
> >>> Strawman answer, maybe. But it’s not a question to ask me, of all people, Tinman.
> 
> <<< I understand.
> 
> >>> We’ll be awaiting your arrival in nine hours. You’ve got a grey zone of forty-five minutes for traffic. Do what’s best for everyone here, Viz. Show up. With her. They want to vilify you with her, now. They’re saying it’s suspect that you were there with her in Greece and both fell off the radar, conveniently for four days after. Show up.

 

  _Show up_ , he said. Vision was not thrilled with the prospect of handing Wanda over to them again. It would not be handing her to Tony as much as it would be handing her back to Ross. Just like before. Only this time, he was not cowardly enough to look away from her piercing, betrayed eyes. This time, he would have to do it and pray there was some forgiveness in her eyes as she was cuffed and taken from him once more.

In his conversation with Tony, Vision had stepped out to the Quinjet to receive the coordinates and flight plan Tony had sent. Wanda was sitting outside on the patio, unaware of the conversation he had with Tony that held the details of her fate. She was unaware, unless she was feigning ignorance and hearing it through her clairvoyance alone. Vision glanced at her and she responded with a smile that seemed too innocent and too _happy_ to be aware of the data transfer happening in his mind. No. She hadn’t been listening. She wouldn’t be smiling like this if she had been listening.

She thought they still had time together there, alone in their own small universe.

 

[**sh** _o w_ u **p** .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZAv38GxgeA)

 

Stepping into the Quinjet, Vision synchronized the coordinates and flight data as it was received.

Wanda’s smile lingered in his mind.

Either it was blissful ignorance or… defeated acceptance of her fate. The latter thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Flight data and coordinates have been synchronized,” Vision spoke into the Quinjet’s comm-link, “Fuel levels adequate. Departure in five minutes.”

In response, he heard Tony’s voice meeting him on the comm-link, “Airspace will be cleared for your arrival. We’ll have you arrive at the facility within the timeframe specified. Be sure she’s aware of the standard reception. I don’t want her to panic. She’s had enough to deal with.”

“We’ve taken their Queen.” Vision murmured.

“Well. All’s fair in love and war. If they get a pawn to our side of the board, Viz, they might just get their Queen back.”

“…Barnes?”

“Maybe. We’re trying to work out what we can. Barnes wants to be frozen. Wants to be asleep. We could give him a safe place… probably even in exchange for Wanda’s safety. Don’t think I wouldn’t fight for her. She’s a kid. Just like Charlie Spencer was. Alright, Viz, we’re waiting for you both. Over and out.”

The comm-link closed and there was only the sound of the Quinjet’s engine roaring to life.

The control panel, with its array of switches and buttons had not lost familiarity to Vision, but at the same time, he sensed a distinct disconnection to it and the material reality of the world around him. Perhaps, he imagined, it was the realization that his mind was not in the present world, but in the future, where he would inevitably be handing Wanda’s safety to the mercy of those who would abuse power.

Anger was welling inside of him.

It was all a damned chess game to them.

How long would it be before he was castled away to take the fall for a King?

The coordinate and global positioning unit was just fourteen centimeters beneath the surface of the central control panel. That thought, and the realization of the vehicle’s blueprint was expanding through his mind, like a flooding river. Fourteen centimeters, attached by only copper prongs and soldered metal that could so easily snap like fragile twigs beneath his grip.

Wanda’s voice jarred him from his thoughts. Her footsteps on the steel and iron cabin’s floor were quiet as she neared.

“I guess we’re ready to go, now?” She was calm. Willing to follow him to her own demise, he thought with bitterness.

Vision was still fixating on the location of the Quinjet’s tracking device.

He nodded. Confirmation of this fate unnerved him.

“Wanda…” He began, uncertain whether he should speak the sentence forming beneath his tongue.

“Yes?”

“…What do you suppose would happen… if the two of us just… disappeared?”

Turning back to her, she stared at him with a slight gape. She shrugged and looked genuinely puzzled as she responded, “I don’t know. There is only one way to find out.”

She stood not far from the backup tracking and satellite-location unit, approximately one meter above her head and a half meter to her right, fixed and hidden between tertiary cooling and directional faculties of the Quinjet’s system.

“…and… if, if we were to just, hypothetically disappear,” Vision unconsciously clasped his hands together as he spoke, fingertip to fingertip, “… _where_ do you suppose we would disappear to?”

A subtle smile crossed Wanda’s features as she thought about this and then answered, “I would like to return to the place I was born. Wundagore. It is quite remote. Difficult to find. Safe.”

Wundagore, Sokovia. There was more than enough fuel to reach that destination.

Vision nodded, letting his fingertips drum in a fidgeting sort of motion. He looked to the control panel again as Wanda made for a seat nearby—Romanoff’s seat.

He reopened the comm-link to send only one final message to Tony Stark.

 

 

> <<< Forgive me.

 

Vision thrust his hand through the control panel. Sparks exploded in a loud flurry beneath them. Wanda shrieked and jumped in her seat as Vision’s arm, phased into the control panel tore the first tracking system free of its electric seating. When he pulled his hand free of the device, he made for three other navigational systems that were bound by wiring alone, above the pilot’s seat. The final would be the secondary location unit over the passenger cabin.

“Viz! What are you doing!?”

With some minor levitation, Vision reached up through the roof of the Quinjet and tore free the final tracking system and its associated wiring. The system’s user interface was blaring with warnings of hardware failure and grid desynchronization. Wanda was standing before him now, the look on her face somewhere between horror and concern.

His hand still on the now-dead locational circuit board, Vision answered her—he felt calm, although he could detect some odd quake in his voice that felt… foreign and yet, distinctly his own emotions slipping through.

“I’ve destroyed the tracking and communication systems linking Stark to the Quinjet. From this point forward, we are off of Stark’s grid.”

Wanda eyed him and his hand buried in the ceiling for a moment, tears welling in her eyes.

“What are you saying?”

What _was_ he saying, what was he _doing?_

That single thought was the last he would question his own actions—he made his decision now, and would follow it through until the end.

“I’d like to disappear with you.”

 

 

 

 

 _feel it coming back, watch it turn to black_  
but i'm brighter when you make me fade  
  
**[ p a r t o n e : e n d ]**

 


	16. One Hand Will Wash The Other

The soft tapping of a keyboard came to slow end as a certain name caught Natasha Romanoff’s attention. Pausing her transcription, she listened in on the news broadcast that interrupted the typical music and radio shows of Bremen, Germany. She took another sip from her glass of wine, leaning back in her chair and listening with a tired stretch.

Translated, the police force was issuing yet another warning to be alert for a certain woman of Wanda Maximoff’s description. It was not new information to Natasha, the fearmongering of the Scarlet Witch had been everywhere since the disaster in Artemida, four days prior. What bothered her about this “breaking news” was that Natasha knew it _should not_ take Vision four days to get her back to the states.

That was the first red flag—and listening further to the story, confirmation came that something was wrong.

Now, Vision was being described as a suspect in the criminal’s disappearance. He was unaccounted for and the media spun his story as a former Avenger gone rogue just like Steve Rogers and those who had been sent to the Raft.

She had done enough psych evaluations on Wanda to get a sense that she was at high risk of going rogue, if pressed for it.

Vision, however, had never struck her as one to defy orders. He was compliant and a marked pacifist who fought only when he had to. A possibility crossed Natasha’s mind, that perhaps Wanda may have overpowered him again just as she had done in New York. However, in that scenario, she could not imagine Vision breaking contact with Stark.

Her phone vibrated, stirring her from her thoughts. A text message from Steve.

 

 

> RECEIVED  
>  24-09-16 at 16:42  
>                  Vision and Wanda both unaccounted for. News stations going nuts. Any contact?
> 
> SENT  
>  24-09-16 at 16:42  
>                  None. First I’ve heard about Vision being missing.
> 
> RECEIVED  
>  24-09-16 at 16:43  
>                  Contact Tony at all?
> 
> SENT  
>  24-09-16 at 16:43  
>                  Not yet. Considering it.
> 
> RECEIVED  
>  24-09-16 at 16:44  
>                  Keep me posted. We’re worried about her. We’re worried about Vision.
> 
> SENT  
>  24-09-16 at 16:44  
>                  U betcha.

 

 

Natasha sighed and took another, longer drink from her wine glass. Stark was the last person she wanted contact with at the moment. But Steve and Stark were on opposite sides of the web and only she could relay the message at this point.

She stepped away from the slender laptop and crossed the small studio safe house she had been laying quiet in. As with every safe house, she kept a single, disposable device for networked communication to either S.H.I.E.L.D., the Stark Network, or whoever else may be employing her at the time. She opened up the single-use machine with some hesitation. There was always the chance that her encrypted messages could get caught and her private location exposed—more so when dabbling with Stark’s Network than S.H.I.E.L.D.—he was good, annoyingly so.

Establishing false, proxy coordinates, she established a connection and Stark would inevitably get a message that a familiar user has logged in. Seeking out Tony Stark, she opened a line of video and audio communication. It was only a short moment before he answered.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite team player.” Tony turned to her in a leather chair, hands folded like some campy film villain. She half expected some mock-villainous laughter to follow, but all she got from him was a very casual, “You’re fired, by the way.”

“I would have put in my two-week notice, but my printer ran out of ink.”

There was a trace of a smirk on Tony’s face as he glanced sideward. Whatever office he was in, it was dark, and he was illuminated by the monitor in front of him. He took a drink from a shot glass and poured another—Natasha imagined he had picked up whiskey again somewhere between Schkeuditz and now. Unfortunate. He had been so very proud of his two-hundred and sixteen days dry.

“What do you want, Nat?”

“Not a lot,” Natasha said softly, “…just couldn’t help but notice you lost your android.”

 _“Synthetic person,_ Nat. Don’t be rude.”

“Synthetic person,” Natasha corrected herself, unamused, “…there’s some concern, you know. One camp’s lost Wanda, the other camp’s lost Vision. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Romeo and Juliet have run away together.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Tony was drumming his fingers on the surface of his desk, “…I’m just not sure what to make of this. Vision doesn’t, he doesn’t take actions that aren’t forged through logic. He doesn’t. It’s not in his programming. I’ve never seen him do it and I see no reason why he would start.”

“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Maybe, I don’t know. I can’t imagine that’s possible. I just… If he’d come back with her when he was expected, we could have worked something out with Ross. We were trying for it. None of us like it, but it’s the best we can do for Wanda.”

“And what would you do for Wanda if it were your call?”

Tony was silent for a moment. His jaw clenched and his breaths steadied. Finally, he answered, “If it were my call, I’d let her run. Stupid, sure. Against everything I signed the Accords for, yes. But I make mistakes. All the damn time. If the only options are giving her over to Ross or letting her go into hiding… I’d allow myself one more magnificent mistake.”

“Sometimes mistakes are all we can make.”

“Everything I’ve ever done regarding Wanda has only wound up hurting her. Even when I’m trying my damndest not to. The best she can do is manage to get far, far away from my reach. Vision… his last message was, ‘Forgive me.’ After that, static. No sign of him in the Stark Network, not even any recent access into the S.H.I.E.L.D. network. They’re both off the grid now. I can understand myself making mistakes, but not Vision.”

With a laugh, Natasha said, “Well, the robot’s in love.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“He made his choice. He only answers to himself now… and his girl. Also, it looks like you owe me a beer.”

“Alright, that bet was made in _jest_ , Nat. Also, _jeez._ I only left them alone together in the compound for _one night. One. Night._ ” He ran a palm over his tired face.

Natasha shrugged, “That’s all it takes. Kids these days. Listen. Vision is easier to track than you think. He can destroy the Quinjet’s connection to the satellite system, but _he’s_ still a walking Wardenclyffe tower. You just have to know what you’re looking for. Every access point to the global web has a unique identifier, Vision included. Think about that, Tony. Send me the last traced coordinates and I’ll see what I can do.”

“What, so you can take them back to Steve?”

“I’ll send Vision wherever he wants to go. Chances are, he goes where Wanda goes. Wanda, on the other hand, clearly wants to disappear. That’s something I’ve got more experience with than she has.”

Tony was nodding, biting his lower lip in thought, “Right. Alright then.”

“I’ll get to work, then.”

“Nat. Hey. Uh… so, have you been in contact Steve at all?”

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. She had always found some mild entertainment in the interactions between Tony and Steve. It was nice to see that something still lingered. It was amusing to see them both ask her the very same question.

“Not much. He’s laying real low.”

“He’s safe, though, right?”

“Safe enough, I imagine. Why, he keeping you up at night?”

Tony’s eyes were distant as he answered cautiously, “Something like that.”

“It won’t always be like this,” Natasha said, “…I don’t think it will, anyway. But… sometimes, even I’m wrong. Been a pessimist too long, I guess.”

“I’d like you to be right.”

“Me too. Over and out, Tony.”

Pursuing Wanda offered a two immediate possibilities. The first of which being that she would venture north into Europe trying to lay low, to get lost and stay lost. The second possibility was that she would not stray far from the nest.

She was born and raised in Sokovia and she spoke much of it during psych evaluations. Each meeting with Wanda still lingered in Natasha’s mind like memories from a vivid dream.

“I’d like to go back… but after Novi Grad, I can’t bear to see their faces. They never liked me before, and I doubt they would like me much now.” Wanda had said. She rubbed at one arm unconsciously as she spoke—she had small tics like this when apprehension trickled into her thoughts. Picking at her nail polish with a thumbnail, biting hangnails, tracing her fingertips across her arms or shoulders. Wanda’s body language had always been an easy read.

Natasha had been taking notes on her dialogue with Wanda, noting a distinct sense of isolation, punishment, and a marked inability to forgive herself. It was consistent with perfectionist traits, although her tendencies toward perfectionism were far more subdued than that of Rhodes or Sam. Where they made mistakes and plowed through said mistakes, Wanda had a distinct inability to let go of her mistakes. She had a marked inability to let go of harmful past psychological fixations and a subtle inclination toward self-destruction.

“They aren’t really aware of your involvement with Ultron or Hydra, you know. As far as the public of Sokovia is aware, you and your brother were young Avengers, coming to their aid.”

“Not all Sokovians regard the Avengers with applause.”

“True.” Natasha conceded.

“I’m a monster. All I want to do sometimes is… disappear.”

At the time, Natasha had said nothing to that. In her mind, however, she understood the meaning of Wanda’s words—she herself often slipped into the shadows where monsters lurked. They were not creatures of a sunlit world—no matter how much they wanted to be.

_“In that regard, perhaps that makes us like sisters.”_

Their paths were not the same, but they were similar.

Sometimes she wasn’t sure of these evaluations, of marking Wanda fit for combat. But Steve pushed for it—he always pushed to keep Wanda in the small family he was trying to create among them. Perhaps, she wanted that, too. In retrospect, the logical part of her mind found these actions foolish and incredibly risky. Now, they were paying the price for taking such risks.

_“You’ll break them.”_

Wanda performed well enough during physical and combat training, although Steve described her as a “glass cannon” in his own evaluation of the girl. Her powers made her the team’s strongest offensive asset, but she was an asset to be protected no matter how they looked at it.

_“Only the breakable ones.”_

For a long time, Natasha had watched Wanda, trying to decipher what Wanda was made of. Wanda was not made of marble, nor was she truly made of glass, either. No… Wanda was made of something else entirely. Something between liquid and illusion, like a rippling image of the full moon on the black sea.

 

 

 

 [[♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qkdj9VfUJxU)]

 

 

[ **the reconstruction of vision and the scarlet witch** ]

## part ii : the sacred liminality of wundagore

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

_f̡̀r̀͟om a great height . . ._

 

_. . . from a great height_

 

_ǵ͘od̵̷͞ loves his children . . ._

 

_. . . god l̨ove̶s ͝his c̡h̡i͞l͟d̶͡re̛͞n҉͢_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin.


	17. Ambedo in the Moment of Freefall

The cool air of the Witches Road was a welcome feeling against her skin. The scent of damp earth and grass hung heavy on the air. The ripple of the lake around the island was a soothing lull. Wanda arrived where she had been last—in the small garden behind the church, where she had spoken with Agatha. It felt like an eternity since she had been there. Wanda crossed around the tiny building and entered through tall, wooden doors. Within, the church was warm and lit a soft gold from wiry candelabra.

Only one figure sat among the benches, an unfamiliar woman with her head bowed as she meditated. When Wanda passed, the woman glanced up with an overly welcoming smile and voice.

“Good evening, Sister!”

“Evening…” Wanda answered, settling into a bench across the aisle from the woman.

The statue of the female deity at the heart of the sanctuary seemed to ground Wanda. She observed it with curiosity, wondering what goddess it was supposed to be representative of, if it were representative of any from the mythologies she was aware of.

“Our mother. Our Matron. She is beautiful, yes? Merciful.”

“Merciful?”

“No matter what path any of us walk, the Matron is always there, watching over us. She sees all that we do. Right or wrong… and she loves us still.”

Wanda asked with caution, “…is the Matron a goddess?”

“Perhaps, to some. But not all of us may believe in gods. No. The Matron is simply the Matron. Neither God nor Being. She simply is. Divinity as a concept of love. A certain sister that once frequented this place… Hecate, she had told me once, the Matron is a being outside of our corporeal universe. She is called the Merciful because with the fragility of the universe before in her hands, she chooses to let us live. All of us around the world have so many different names for the same thing. We look across the spiral of the universe and see ourselves on other shores. Dizzying, isn’t it?”

Wanda thought about the concept behind this deity, this concept personified, and wondered if it truly was that “dizzying.” She had never taken part in religion, even as a child in a traditionally Jewish household. She followed the old rituals and she knew the scriptures, but for some reason she never quite felt the divinity the way her brother and her parents described. After their passing, Pietro carried on their traditions, and Wanda followed without question.

Just as she felt among the congregation of a synagogue, she found herself again feeling the distinct absence of benediction. There was a certain irony there, she decided, finding the same thing in two very different places of holiness.

“I have not yet asked your name, Sister, forgive me. Sovannah… and you?”

“Wanda,” she answered, blessedly pulled from the vacuum of thoughts spirituality often sucked her into.

“It is always a pleasure to meet another Sister. Even more so, blessed, that we meet under the eyes of the Matron.”

Wanda was not sure how to follow that. This woman clearly felt more of a holy vibration from the visage than she did. She kept silent.

“I come here because our world is so full of… pain, anger. People who see us, they… they are not merciful. Looking at her, I often wonder what I would do in her place. What would you do? If the universe were a fragile thing laid out in front of you?”

It did not take much thought for Wanda to look at Sovannah and answer, “I would love it as I would love a child, I suppose.”

Sovannah smiled and her dark eyes fixed downward, “Do you have children, my Sister?”

“No. Children are precious. I’m not fit to care for one.”

“Motherhood is so revered, isn’t it? You will see that even children are humans.”

Sovannah was twisting some small paper between her fingers. She was whispering something under her breath as the paper crunched and curled. Her eyes blinked, long lashes flit open then shut, and soundless, her lips were a rapid, silent prayer.

Between Greece and Sokovia, Wanda had spent only a short while in meditation, if only to be certain that the Witches Road were not a mere figment of a stressed imagination. Sure enough, it had been there, just as she had left it. It’s other inhabitant, however, had unsettled her enough to opt back into reality, into the silence of the Quinjet.

The clouds below the Quinjet were thick and grey, telling of poor weather below. It was typical of Sokovia. Wanda had grown up with storms and rain on a near-daily basis. This time of year often brought the first snowstorms in the Sokovian mountains. The white peaks above the stormy sea of clouds were beautiful through the cockpit’s windshield. Thus far in her life, she had only ever seen the peaks of the Wundagorian mountains from below. Even then, they had enamored her on clear days.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have the courage to come back here,” Wanda said, standing beside Vision.

The Quinjet’s serene pilot answered with a smile, “Better now than never, as they say?”

She felt tears in her eyes, warm, but filled with happiness. They threatened to spill over as she smiled and realized that truly, she was going _home_.

Her fingertips brushed across Vision’s shoulder until one shy palm settled comfortably upon him.

“Strange how déjà vu hits you in situations you know you could not have possibly ever experienced. Maybe I had taken a plane that crossed over them in my past… it’s just odd, seeing them like this, so familiar. So close to the top.”

“The concept of déjà vu is fascinating. I would like to think I experience it… but I am not sure a synthetic hippocampus would be capable of such anomalies. Sometimes, however. I get a distinct sensation I might erroneously describe as déjà vu.”

“I’m not sure I like it much. I can never tell if it’s a good or bad omen.”

“Perhaps omens are relative. To some, they may be bad. To others, good.” Vision offered. There was concern in his features when he followed up with, “Does this instance, if you do not mind me asking, appear to be a good omen?”

Thinking about this, Wanda let her fingers trace across the curve of his shoulder. At her touch, Vision slowly let his eyes shut and she could see the faint ghost of a smile on his scarlet lips. He looked beautiful in that moment. The world below them was beautiful. They would be there in a few short moments, _together_.

Wanda knelt down slipping closer to him. She folded her slender hands together over his shoulder and then rested her chin atop her knuckles. A playful grin followed.

“I think it is a good omen.”

His eyes were beautiful and ornate, far different from any human irises. Vivid blue, formed of many rings and different synthetic lenses crafted by the machine which had birthed him. It was a bit hypnotic, watching his eyes from so close, seeing the way each ring turned and each lens focused on her face. To such new eyes, the world must have been a wondrous lucid dream.

Wanda caught herself growing too comfortable in his presence again. They had a way of being caught in one another’s gravitational pull, and at that moment, their lips were sure to find blissful collision. Since that night in the villa, she found herself thinking back on that kiss often. Perhaps _too_ often. Curiosity desired another brush with synthetic flesh, slightly cold, carrying a distinctly artificial scent and taste she could not yet name—but oh, how she wanted to name it.

It was difficult to allow herself too much bliss, however.

“Alright, pilot. Eyes on the road.” Wanda sighed, pulling away as not to be carried off by her thoughts and wants.

Nodding with a soft exhale, Vision agreed, “Yes. Of course.”

They would be arriving in Wundagore soon, Wanda knew, and she never quite liked takeoffs or landings on planes, not even the Quinjet. Perhaps, especially not the small Quinjet, where turbulence felt far more like a rollercoaster than within the safety of an airbus.

“Thank you for all of this, Vision.”

Descending through the storm was like slipping into chaos. Beneath the clouds, thick rain and sleet pounded the Quinjet’s body and streaked across the glass. Wanda watched Vision and his utter lack of fear in silence. She envied the way nothing ever bothered him. But perhaps, she thought, if she could simply phase out of a crashing plane and fly her way to safety, she would be unafraid, too.

Turbulence rocked the Quinjet’s frame, now, as Wanda buckled into her seat. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in that careful, timed manner that Natasha had taught her.

“You’re alright,” Natasha had said, her bold, red lips curled in a smile as she held Wanda’s hand back then. Rhodes had been piloting the Quinjet when Natasha taught her to breathe away her anxiety. Rhodes had jokingly called back from the pilot’s seat, “I’m a little offended you’re scared of my driving, kid. Just saying.”

Wanda had always preferred to fly sitting next to Natasha. Now, however, there was no Natasha. It was no big deal, she reminded herself, breathing hard as the Quinjet lurched through some kind of draft or air pocket. She heard thunder booming from somewhere within the clouds and squeezed the seat’s belts tight.

“Viz, you can land this thing in a snowstorm, right?” Wanda asked.

“Of course,” Vision answered, voice calm, “Granted, we will first have to locate the town of Wundagore and find adequate landing space. Currently, we are flying without any functioning topographical mapping system.”

No functioning topographical… Wanda tried to decipher what this meant. All she knew was that he had stuck his hand through the control panel and somehow disabled Stark’s ability to track them. She was not tech-minded by any means, and only then did it occur to her that other systems may have been damaged by Vision’s manual dismantling.

With mild panic, Wanda said, “No… no topographical mapping system? Like… the system that tells you if it’s safe to land? So that you don’t, um… don’t land in trees or on a cliff?”

“Yes.”

Alright, then, he was not sugarcoating this one bit.

“So,” Wanda swallowed hard, “…so you’re just eyeballing it then.”

“No. I’m winging it.”

Wanda thought about that deadpan response for a minute, brow furrowed. If the reality of those words weren’t so terrifying, she may have actually laughed at that pun. They hit an air pocket again. Her stomach lurched.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Is the weather here always this bad?” Vision asked.

“Are you changing the subject?”

“I’ve detected the outskirts of a small city near the lake. Is this the Wundagore you spoke of?”

“Yes!” Wanda perked up and answered quickly, “Yes, yes, the town by the lake!”—another lurch, surely Wanda had grown pale and clammy by this point. Swallowing her terror again, she added, “That is Wundagore.”

Her joy faded again under fear as she heard the heavy battering of hail on the Quinjet’s hull. From the sound of it, the size of the hail was considerable.

Wundagore was so close.

For a moment, that man from Greece came to mind. His dark, almost beady eyes and his smug grin. She was not sure why he came to mind, aside from his association with Wundagore. She recalled clearly at that moment, the way his hands moved, just like her own, levitating that silver pocket watch. He flickered through her memory again, this time through some scarlet filter in her mind’s eye.

Something burst outside of the Quinjet. The sound and the force rattled the cabin and Wanda clutched the seat with a white-knuckled grip. Sweat formed over her face in small droplets and her heart raced. Every nerve in her body was lit up at that moment, taking in the coarse feel of the belt on her fingertips, the scent of metal and something _burning_ from the skeleton of the Quinjet. She could hear more mechanical groaning as hail beat down on them and in her mouth she tasted the faintest trace of blood where she’d bit the inside of her cheek in a turbulence-induced drop.

Vision looked calm, though. He always looked calm. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her, she trusted. Focusing on him and only him, she prayed for the landing to be over with quickly.

Another blast outside rocked the Quinjet, and it was then that she saw red lights overtake the control panel. Alert sounds blared, indicating critical system and structural failures. He was still calm, though, she thought through steady, deep breaths. It couldn’t be as bad as it looked.

“Oh… that’s not good,” Vision said.

The lights within the cabin flickered and then they were out. One final lurch and burst from outside was the last thing Wanda remembered before the freefall began. She screamed. Vision called out to her, but she could barely register his words. He phased through the pilot’s seat and his phantom form rushed toward her. He was telling her something, with urgency— _eject._

She shook her head crying, hands fumbling over the safety functions beneath the seat. Tony had showed her this _once_ and she had prayed she’d never have to use it.

It was in a different place. This was a different Quinjet. These were different seats. She panicked.

Vision found the mechanism before she did.

The boosters beneath the seat thrust her far from the Quinjet, far from him. Wind and ice cut through her skin like frozen knives. She screamed, though she could not hear anything beside the blare of thunder and hail and the explosion of the parachute bursting from the seat. She lit up in scarlet lights, trying her hardest to force stability against the wind and body-crushing thrust. If she could only unhook the belts strapping her to the seat, she could regain her own stability in the air, she thought, hands fumbling over the tight restraints despite gravity’s pulls from every angle.

She thought, for a fraction of a second, that she saw Vision’s silhouette racing after her through the flashing storm. When the chute opened in the wind, all hope that he would reach her was shattered. The chute’s violent pull sent all blood from her skull down to her toes. By then, she was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep, this chapter's coming up a bit later than I intended, running into some pretty awful computer problems this afternoon! (Wrestling with a new set of RAM sticks, one of which, I've come to believe, is actually faulty? Woo~ back to the store we go!)


	18. A Light Which Dissolves In One Hand

Shortly after Wanda disappeared in the sleet and wind, the hail and rain ceased. Now, there were only gale winds and in the place of hail, a near-vertical drift of snow. All view of the area beneath Vision was obscured in white. As he descended, he found they had jettisoned the Quinjet over a large lake that slept under a thick layer of ice. In the distance, the Quinjet was a booming fire, veiled to near-invisibility by the quantity of snow.

Vision saw the tell-tale shape of a lifeless parachute strewn across the ice, and following it, he found an empty seat. A sense of vertigo fell over him. Where was she? He bolted around in rising panic—an odd, horrifying sensation, panic. The belts of the seat were unclasped. Had she walked away from this, somehow? There were no signs of footsteps in the snow, although the wind and fresh powder would inevitably have obscured her tracks anyway… but she would not have just up and walked away, she had to have come free of the restraints.

“Wanda…?” Vision had lost control of his voice’s volume, her name crossing his lips at first with unintentional quiet. The second time, a roaring cry, “Wanda!”

Questions were flooding his mind— _where was she, was she dead, was she injured, was she alive but dying, was she afraid, was she safe and sound_ —he forced himself to clear away these thoughts, lest he succumb to a paralyzing information overflow.

He hovered over the ice, searching close by and then rising upward to try and catch a wider sight of the lake and its surrounding woodlands.

Conditions were next to whiteout.

He called out her name, hopelessly, panic corrupting his vocal patterns, “Wanda!?”

There was another distinct _something_ about this lake that unnerved him as he hovered across it’s frozen surface. He sensed a certain magnetic disturbance in the region that somehow fatigued him. Perhaps his less-organic faculties were affected by this. He had never felt anything like it.

He caught the sound of footsteps running behind him.

“Wanda?”

Vision turned toward the sound and pursued it.

“Wanda! Are you injured?”

The footsteps were rushing further away. He could not discern any shadow in the distance, nor could he even identify a heat signature. As they faded, he turned back toward the immediate area of the ejected seat’s landing, this time opting to search the shoreline.

A sunny glint caught his eye as he neared the edge of the ice. A gold vine, protruding from below, it’s shining anatomy just shy of a slender branch or twig. Thorns on its outside were an evolutionary tell that it was not to be touched. It was of no importance to him. Vision continued his search.

When he identified a slight figure half-submerged in the shallows of the lake, her name crossed his lips. Vision rushed toward the heat signature at the lake’s edge and sure enough, he found her unconscious and face down in slush and water. Her pulse was faint, but it was there. Blood trickled across her face from cuts on her head and from internal breakage within her bruise-blackened nose.

The angle of her shoulder and arm behind her implied dislocation.

Ana came to mind at that moment—fragile porcelain rendered in pieces. Just as carefully, he moved her, mindful to keep her spine straight and head steady. A sinking sensation crossed over him when he noted the spill of blood pouring from her left leg. A sharp branch from below the shallow water had punctured and compromised her femoral artery. Without medical attention, she would bleed out quickly—and he had wasted enough time locating her.

As he took her into cautious arms, he prayed he would not further damage her broken body. The town was not far, and surely, there would be some medical facility.

The town itself was a small distance from the lake. His phantom form floated in over lifeless streets. Identifying a hospital near the town’s edge, he made quickly toward it. Through the white curtain of snow, the amber lights within were a warm, inviting glow.

Inside, the dozing secretary at the desk received him with wide-eyes and a strangled scream. Bolting out of her seat, she shrieked in Sokovian, _“Đavo!”_

In Sokovian, Vision pleaded, “Please, remain calm. She requires medical attention.”

Identifying the woman’s terrified language, she tripped over her chair on the way into the halls, screaming, “Devil! Devil!”

Her wails echoed through the halls. Fair enough, he decided, making his own path through the hospital. All he needed were medical supplies and utilities—he would stop the bleeding himself if he must.

Down a corridor, he caught sight of one middle-aged, male doctor who eyed them both with visible disbelief. He had frozen, mid-drink, from a flask that he was quickly tucking back into his coat. Approaching them with bolder determination than the shrieking secretary from before, Vision sensed there was more concern for the injured Wanda than fear for the scarlet-skinned synthetic man carrying her.

“Devil, huh? What did she do down there to make you bring her back?” The doctor asked. A name badge on his chest identified him as Marlowe, Marion.

“We have no time. She’s lost a lot of blood and her femoral artery is damaged.”

“Bring her this way,” Marlowe said, guiding them through the corridors into a small and sterile operating room.

As Vision placed Wanda upon the table, Marlowe was calling out to the remaining nurses and pulling a disposable blue gown over his small frame. He threw one to Vision, “Staying or leaving? If staying, you need these.”

One nurse had poked a curious blonde head in before taking one look at Vision and rushing out in terror.

“Perhaps I should stay and assist you.” Vision said, unraveling the folded gown and its accompanying pieces.

“Is this some kind of prank?” A second nurse said, eying Vision with caution.

“It’s not some kind of prank, we have a girl bleeding to death here, now are you going to prep her for surgery or not?” Marlowe seethed, before turning to Vision, “Is she allergic to anything?”

She was not, he recalled from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical dossiers.

The nurse—badge identifying her as Kovac, Nadia—crept slowly around Vision and looked over the injuries on Wanda’s body. She cleaned them quickly, taking scissors to remove the fabric around her punctured thigh. Her injuries were more extensive than Vision had realized. Under her shirt, dark bruising stretched across her chest and torso. Potential fractures—by some mercy, her breaths were stable and her lungs appeared unpierced by any broken ribs.

Nadia remained with them throughout the ordeal, her eyes rarely leaving Vision, rarely displaying anything but unease. Perhaps that fear only intensified when she realized the metal framing his face or the seams running through his skin were not some elaborate costume. The more she stared, the more distracted she became, until Marlowe finally told her to get out.

She was shaking by the time she stumbled for the door, still watching Vision in disbelief.

“Don’t mind her. Half the people in this town are incredibly superstitious.” Marlowe said, gesturing for Vision to hold steady the hemostat clamping Wanda’s exposed, glistening artery.

“What happened here, anyway? This isn’t the kind of weather to be playing around the mountains in. She fall?”

“Something like that.”

“…you’re lucky you got her in when you did.”

Hours followed beneath the heat of the surgical table’s lighting. Vision assisted the procedure as best he could, but his knowledge was limited. Medical texts procured from collegiate networks provided a map of arterial anatomy and diagrams of surgical procedure. However, the bulk of Wanda’s fate lied in Marlowe’s hands, dated machinery, and intravenous drips. He had no further questions for them.

Wanda’s unconscious body was later examined by x-ray and multiple fractures were located and treated, dislocations located and relocated. Wounds were cleaned and bandaged and finally, she was left to rest as her body would finish the last stretch of the race. It would be nearly twenty-eight hours before she stirred. Vision was at her side the entirety of that duration.

In the calmer light of day, nurses coming in to observe and dress Wanda’s injuries still sidestepped Vision with visible mistrust. Those who had not been there the night before heard whispers of the girl carried in by a red devil and peered into Wanda’s room with fascination. The only one who made conversation with him was Nadia, when she returned on the second evening.

“That really is your face, isn’t it…?” She asked, leaning forward.

“Is it offensive?”

She shook her head quickly, “No. No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all our reactions. You just… we thought… you really scared the life out of Anita,” Nadia laughed, “…she’s coming along well. Your friend. We… we’re going to have to get her name and yours at some point, however.”

“You mean to say that nobody in this hospital has recognized either of us?”

“Ah… in this town, people are either highly religious or just uninterested in what goes on down the mountain. We come here to get away from a world of sin and war. If the two of you are faces most would know, you’ll find that none of us here are people who would know such faces.”

“Fair enough.”

“We don’t get any television or radio reception up here. Very few of us own such things. Those who do, well, the only channel we get comes in poorly from Novi Mesec, and it’s an all-day cooking show. Only landlines seem to work, sparingly. That’s about all the link we’ve got to the world.”

“Her name is Wanda.” Vision said, watching the shallow rise and fall of her bandaged chest, “…and I am called Vision.”


	19. Porcelain Pieced Together By Gold

“You’re still here, girl?” Agatha’s voice came.

Wanda sat at the edge of the garden, on a cold, stone bench. As Agatha neared with soft steps and an aura of gentle welcome, Wanda felt that at the very least, this place was safe. However, if time had taught her anything, it was that she disliked feeling trapped anywhere. Not even in this small sanctuary.

“I’m not sure I can go back.”

“You tried all that we suggested? Inducing vertigo, a fall…”

Wanda shook her head, her shoulders slumping, “Nothing. Even falling just has me ghosting through the ground until I float back up. I… I think I might be dead.”

“Nonsense. You would not be here if you were dead.”

Agatha’s words offered some relief to her, “Is that true? That the dead cannot be here?”

“To get to this place requires that you have a body capable of meditation. Do you remember what you were doing last, before you became trapped here?”

All Wanda could remember was a freefall after she unbound herself from the spiraling parachute. Foolish enough, she had thought she was able to fly herself to safety on her own, but the storm’s gusts proved too chaotic. The force of gravity tossing her body around in the ejected seat had pulled her in and out of consciousness. All she truly remembered was black sky and white snow in every direction.

Vision’s silhouette against the flash of lightning, racing after her… there was that image, too. Had he found her? How long was she out? Clearly she was still alive… but what would happen when, suddenly, she was not?

“Time passes differently here than it does… _out there_ , doesn’t it?” Wanda asked.

“Sometimes minutes here can be hours there… and sometimes it’s the other way around. There’s never any way of telling until you come out of it.”

“I think I might be comatose.”

“Well. I prefer to remain optimistic… but you would not be the first witchling who was locked in here for days only to find out later she had been comatose for many years.”

Years? Would she wake up in the Raft? Or some foreign medical facility, somewhere far, far away from Vision? Where would he be? What fate would he suffer after trying to escape with her?

“I have to go back; I can’t stay here.” Panic was welling as her voice quaked.

“If your case is anything like the last I just mentioned, perhaps you may find answers in the wood,” Agatha pointed out to the woods beyond the lake, “…remember that this place is only a small sanctuary of my own creation. The real power of the Witches Road is, of course, on the Witches Road.”

Wanda sensed enough truth in her word to give the suggestion a shot. Thanking her for her advice, Wanda crossed the lake and delved into the paths expanding beyond the lake. The last time she walked these roads, her body in the real world had been stifled by that collar. She was stripped of her powers, then, with a painful reach that expanded even into this place. Now, however, she had the ability to rise up into the sky and look over the expanse of the woods.

Rising over it and trying to identify any points of interest proved unsuccessful. On higher inspection, Wanda realized, the forest and its paths expanded into infinity, past a foggy horizon, all grey winding branches and misty trees in monochrome. Where was she to even begin searching? She made a slow descent back into the paths.

What felt like hours of wandering proved to be just that—hours of endeavor with no result. Occasionally she saw the same black and gold vines curling through soil and mulch, but even following these once more lead her to no better point than that which she first started.

This place had no sun over its overcast sky, she noted. Surely by now, she may have seen the come and go of a few days. Everything about this place was, however, still and without ripple against time’s tides.

She stopped at a crossroads that parted six ways, following the vine once again before it submerged beneath the earth. There, it seemed, she had no further blind guess to follow. Where would following the vine take her had it not dipped back below the dirt? Letting her hands shine scarlet, Wanda sought to find out. A small gesture of the wrists at first, and the vine was tugged against the place it descended. It was deep, and pulling it up would require more effort… and so, her arms moving, Wanda felt its resistance against her psychic pull. The vine glimmered sunset hues under dancing red lights as she enchanted it up from the earth.

With a final snap, the vine tore up from the soil and followed a single path to the north. She followed.

Another long stretch down this path proved a change in her surroundings. The woods grew darker and the mist, colder. Wanda pressed forward—this had to mean _something_. She began to run toward this darkness. More gold vines were protruding up from the earth and winding up through the trees. Shadows stirred and departed the canopy of dead branches overhead—blackbirds, Wanda first thought, until one flew within a hair’s breadth of her face. She gasped and nearly stumbled back, watching the monstrosity caw and beat its wings at her.

It looked like a black bird, but it had no feathers beyond those of its wings—black, nearly indigo flesh and a featureless head with a dark beak. Its talons clawed at her in fright before it lifted away for the sky. A long tail snaked behind it, thin and reminiscent of ebony ribbon.

“The hell was that…?” Wanda breathed to herself, gazing after it.

Climbing back to her feet, she continued her trek, this time, wary of sleeping birds.

 A glint of red in the distance caught her eye. Small, slender of body, the figure far ahead was walking at a gentle pace. Wanda recognized this woman from before—clad in a red cloak, half obscured by shadows. This time, she was determined to reach her.

She gave chase, calling out, “Hey!”

The figure stilled for a moment, one hand brushing across the bark of a tree. Wanda neared her, and she could make out the definite features of a woman with long, dark curls.

“I-I’m a bit lost out here.” Wanda called to her.

Thick, warm drops of rain pattered around her from the inky sky above. Each drop smeared something dark and oily across the surface it landed upon. On Wanda’s palm, she caught several raindrops, and as it pooled she identified it as some kind of watery _oil?_

The woman in the red cloak bolted away in a run. Before Wanda could call out to her again, something else broke the silence of the paths.

A shrill screech, as loud as thunder overhead tore Wanda’s attentions from the woman. It had come from behind her, one cry after the other, audibly growing closer.

If that woman were running, Wanda thought, despite the flash of red at her fingertips, maybe she should be running, too.

The unearthly noise behind her was nearing. Wanda looked back over her shoulder and saw, not a _thing_ , but rather, a transparent silhouette of _something_. Trees cracked and flattened under a massive, unseen thing of indiscernible shape.

Looking closer, she realized it was destroying, _erasing_ the path behind her.

Wanda ran.

A thick branch shot out past her, thrown from the path-devourer. She ducked down, sensing something larger flung her way—it was an uprooted tree. That thing was closing the distance behind her and she was no closer to that sliver of red running off into the distance.

Pressing herself forward into scarlet-lit leaps, Wanda raced after. A thick, spiraling log clipped her leg, knocking her to the dirt and mud below. The scent of that oily rain was intoxicating now, definitely something like _tar_.

 _Run, run, run,_ she chided as she climbed back to her feet.

She saw the woman in red up ahead dipping off the trail and sliding down a leafy slope. Wanda followed after. That unseen monster behind them both turned and tore up leaves and rocks and fallen trees as it devoured everything in Wanda’s footsteps. Closer now, she saw that it’s wake was a deep, black void, like a drop at the edge of a dream.

The woman in red was nearing a stream. When she leapt across it, she disappeared. Without question, Wanda followed. She watched the ground beneath her get sucked away and dissolved into nothing. The path-devourer’s trail, however, stopped at the water’s edge. 

Across the stream, however, Wanda did not land in any stretch of woods she’d seen before crossing.

Instead, she dropped into a rainless stretch of nothing, following only a soft red light in the distance. As it neared, she could make out the square shape of a room, as seen from above. Her descent slowed until she fell comfortably into the heart of some small library lit by a warm hearth.

Looking up to where she’d come from, she saw a dark ceiling but nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe, she decided, it was time to stop questioning the logic of this place.

The room itself had no windows. A creaking wood floor was covered by a red and maroon rug, on which a small, old chair was placed beside bookshelves. A tiny stand beside the chair held an open book. The ink, however, formed no recognizable letters or glyphs. They moved across the page’s surface like scattered ants, but never did they leave the page.

Aside from that and a painting on the wall, the room carried few other points of interest. Not even a door or window. That sense of entrapment welled inside of her again as she pored over each of the four walls. Crossing by the mantle again, she noticed a doll on the floor, cracked and tucked away below a painting of a single, autumn-hued tree.

She recognized the doll’s red dress and its dark curls, but it’s porcelain pieces were a scattered mess.

“Oh… Ana, what are you doing here?” Wanda said, kneeling.

Levitating each piece, Wanda thought for some way to piece her back together, at least. She guided a part of the neck back to its rightful place and, as the piece fit, she saw a small gold line form and seal the pieces together. There was some relief in that.

At least she could put Ana back together by this place’s odd magic. Sitting by the fire, Wanda spent the next short while putting the doll back together. It’s broken limbs were now smattered with tiny, gold, veins, but at least the pretty little thing was back together. It pained her in some odd way to see Ana in such a state. By the time she fit each piece of Ana’s head back together, ending at the left eye, a drowsy feeling fell over Wanda. She was determined not to nod off and fall over until she finished Ana, but, oh, the pull of the hearth’s warmth was hypnotic.

“There…” Wanda said, laying back on the floor and levitating the restored doll over her.

Each crack was still visible by the gold fixing each piece together. She had once seen pottery like this—old, broken, but pieced back together in a manner which was unconcerned with its own scars. What had it been called? Vision had said the name once, ages ago—it was a Japanese word… _kintsugi?_ He had rambled at length in a way that was so very _Vision_ , vocally appreciating the concept behind the art. It was exactly as it looked—a way of embracing destruction and a repair that sought to not forget the past. At the time, she did not understand or fully appreciate pottery, post- _kintsugi_.

Now, though… she rather appreciated the way it looked on Ana.

Wanda slipped into comfortable sleep, and when she woke, she saw the welcome light of sun pouring in through a window. A cool breeze from outside, rippling white curtains. Her body was alight with pain at every limb. She could feel the sting of incisions and stitches and the tight bindings of bandages around her body. The sterile scent of hospital chemicals reminded her of Dr. Cho’s laboratory—and she was grateful that, it reminded her of that, rather than Dr. List.

She felt broken, and yet, at the same time, for the first time, she felt repaired.

Ana floating overhead was an image still burned into her mind, soothing her.

Phasing quickly to her side, she was met with another welcome face.

“Vision…” Wanda breathed, a smile forming that they both shared.


	20. Shedding One's Face to Reveal Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, I feel bad for slacking on responding to comments lately! I've been in the process of a job transition and move to another city (and I am *loving* it all! Busy as heck, but so much fun!) 
> 
> I wanted to thank you all for sticking with the story thus far and to thank everyone who's been leaving lovely feedback, you guys are incredibly wonderful and I'm just overjoyed that you're all still enjoying and still with this ever-expanding plot. A milestone is being reached at about this point, which I feel comes in at a very good time, given the release of Dr. Strange this month. I think the purpose may be becoming clear to readers familiar with the original tale of The Vision and the Scarlet Witch and one may be slowly beginning to piece together the purpose of this "Reconstruction" after the "Civil War" — Dr. Strange's story definitely opened up all the doors I was expecting to validate the "sub-canon" that makes Reconstruction happen (all very much explained soon.) 
> 
> Anyway, if you haven't seen Dr. Strange yet, I highly recommend it, those visuals and fractals and reality-bending scenes are everything I hope we start seeing Wanda dabble in by the climax of her MCU presence!

If the hospital’s staff did not already think them demons of some sort, they certainly did upon watching Wanda’s recovery. It was not instantaneous, but it was far quicker than any recovery they had ever seen. Projected weeks of healing were expedited into days. Nadia and the other nurses could not explain it—they only eyed them both with quiet, Sokovian murmurs and shared glances of unease in Vision’s direction. Changing her bandages, they found her to be as far as four weeks’ worth of recovery.

_“Đavo?”_

_“Ona je vještica.”_

The oddest bit about the ordeal, Vision mused, was that this accelerated recovery did not seem to begin until Wanda first opened her eyes after several nerve-wracking days of coma. She had managed only his name and a smile before slipping back under—but from that moment, her recovery was no longer that of a normal human, but of the Scarlet Witch.

The day after she awoke, she was sitting up and walking on the same leg that had been punctured and resealed with numerous stitches. The dislocation of her right ankle had been news to her, with little recollection of the fall.

Scars from the deeper wounds would surely take much longer, some perhaps remaining for the rest of her life. The burn marks around her neck from the Raft did not seem affected by this metabolic change. Despite that, what should have been several weeks of recovery passed over Wanda in a matter of thirteen days.

In that time, Vision had yet to see Dr. Marlowe again.

 _Unfortunate,_ Vision mused, having wanted to thank the man since that first night.

Vision followed Wanda through the hospital’s halls. She was stepping out for air in the courtyard, despite Nadia’s insistence that she remain in bed, resting. Nadia had only conceded defeat when she saw how easily Wanda could walk despite the injuries. The girl still had a slight limp to her step, but she appeared far more robust than any of the nurses or doctors following Marlowe had anticipated.

The courtyard at the heart of the hospital was small, harboring a few small trees, hanging over wooden benches and a single round pond. Amidst the snowfall that lay heavy over the courtyard, the pond looked like a small, white moon of ice.

Wanda took a seat on the bench near the pond. Silence and a veil of thought seemed to fall over her features. He wanted to take a seat beside her, but he opted to stand. There was a gap between the two of them which he found himself categorically unworthy of closing.

She would not be there, injured, having scraped shy of death itself had he been more cautious with the Quinjet.

“Vision… whatever happened to the Quinjet…?” Wanda finally spoke. Vision imagined she must have heard an echo of his thoughts. She confirmed this when she looked up and then gestured for him to sit beside her. A quick, awkward step followed and he complied.

It was nicer sitting beside her than it was to stand—she was warm. He had never noticed differences in temperature before. Always, it was there, but never had there been particular preference or lack of ambivalence.

“There was a technical malfunction that lead to insufficient cooling system operations. The TVC system experienced a critical failure, resulting in an explosion that took out the—”

“Viz, it’s alright. What I meant was… what happened to it after we jumped ship? …is it still out there, somewhere?”

“In the event of catastrophic system failure, the Quinjet is designed for evacuation time and subsequent self-destruction. Whatever pieces may remain of it, they are buried under, what I estimate to be a meter and a half of snow. I plan on locating and incinerating whatever remains.”

“So… you really do plan on staying here, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Vision felt a smile crossing his face as he answered quickly, “…I would not leave your side, for any reason.”

Expressions on human faces in general were still difficult to read, even after spending over a year among them. Wanda, however, had been the first he had identified emotional patterns in. He recognized a semblance of fear, but he also recognized something different, something pleasant, not far removed from happiness. She was the only one he had met thus far who had a way of expressing seemingly opposite emotions between the distance of cerise lips and mossy eyes.

When her lips widened into a smile, it washed away any fear he may have held that she was unhappy with his answer. That fragment of unease he’d sensed in her dissolved. She moved closer to him, ever so slightly.

“Thank you, Viz.”

“I am glad that you are alive and safe,” Vision said, lost in the warmth of her skin, “…there was worry in my mind. Worry that… I would lose you. Recalculating a world without your presence was… decidedly not agreeable.”

“Don’t worry, Viz. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Especially without you.”

Her fingers were small and soft, slipping between his own. Ivory angel’s skin, fair against synthetic, scarlet flesh. It was no wonder that the nurses saw him and thought devil; let them think what they would. As long as the devil had his beloved witch, all was right in the world.

“Miss Wanda?” Nadia’s voice called to them. Wanda glanced over, and Nadia announced, “…you have a visitor. He is waiting for you in the day room.”

Wanda’s hold on Vision’s arm tightened. He felt her breath hitch up. As Nadia slipped back through the hospital’s doors, Wanda looked up at Vision, eyes wide and filled with fear. His reflex was to stroke her head; a gentle motion he’d seen from somewhere he could not recall.

“I am here and I will be sure that you are safe.”

They made their way to the day room—tall windows filtering in cold daylight from the snowy world outside. Among seats and tables and a small arrangement of soft couches near a bookshelf, they were met with only a single person waiting there. He stood by the window, hands tucked into his pockets as he stared outward. He turned to them with a very pleasant smile on a slightly unnerving, gaunt face.

Wanda’s tight hold on Vision’s hand loosened. He sensed her fear slipping away and watched an expression of recognition come over her. From where did she recognize this man? Vision looked at him again—black hair, smoothed to the side, a tall, slight frame and a dark suit. He remembered watching Wanda on a Greek cliff side speaking to a man in similar dress—yes, that must have been where they met.

He recalled clearly, the beady blackness of his eyes against pallid skin.

“Ah, you…!” He spoke, taking a slow stride toward them. Quirking a narrow eyebrow, some confusion washed over his angular features, “…you had a different face the last time I saw you.”

Wanda inched away as he leaned in, eying her curiously from varying angles, as if he was not quite sure whom he was looking at, “Oh, dear, this _is_ odd, I’ve not yet met one before who could change their face on a whim. Plastic surgeons must hate you. But no, it is definitely you…”

“How could you possibly recognize me?”

“I recognize souls, not faces. I’ve actually never been good with faces. But I can assure you that this face is decidedly _different_ from your last face. Odd. Your powers must be more complex than I assumed.”

“It was… that wasn’t my…” Wanda swallowed and hesitated for a moment, before lowering her voice, “…how did you find me? Did someone tell you I was here?”

“I heard rumors that there was a devil and a witch in the hospital. That sort of thing is, as they say, right up my alley. How odd it is that the witch in question was the witch from… well. You know. Just as well, how odd it is that you no longer travel alone, it seems.”

“What is odd about that?” Vision interjected.

The man gave a polite smile, looking Vision once over before answering, “…forgive me, that came out rude.”

“Well. Do you plan on exorcising this hospital of the devil and the witch or do you have a reason to be here, looking for me?” Wanda asked.

“Both, actually. But I’d have to explain the former in time. First things first, I’d like to apologize for not introducing myself the first time we met. I’d also like to apologize for not taking a moment to know your name. You and your friend. Should you be interested… There is a safe place in Wundagore for you both. A place that could use those of your talents.”

Vision looked to Wanda for her sense of the man. She was still looking him over, but he could not tell whether she felt trust or mistrust. His own read of the man was marred with suspicion. Vision had heard very little of the first conversation they had had on the cliff side. The context this man came from was a mystery to him. Vision enjoyed puzzles and he enjoyed riddles, but he was not keen on mysteries.

“Wanda,” she introduced herself.

“Vision.”

The man nodded, his thin mouth curling into a smile, “Interesting. You two are both better here than out there… those are two very sought-after names outside of these mountains. But I assure you, this place is a sanctuary for witches and devils alike. My name is Nicholas Scratch.”

 


	21. A Small Blessing of Familiarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, apologies for the late post! TuT Hope everyone had a lovely holiday! It was Thanksgiving in the states, which often involves a lot of family coming together after days of hectic travel arrangements lol, but it's fun, it's always worth getting relatives together. Hopefully, with work slowing down for a couple weeks before Christmas/New Year, I can get some art in for the story again! *u*

Wanda was still wary of this Nicholas Scratch, but he had seemed genuine enough in their shared sense of displacement in the world. They left the hospital with him, Wanda more than well enough on her own. When a receptionist at the front desk asked Nicholas his relation to the patient, he said simply, with a pleasant smile, “That is irrelevant, dear.”

The receptionist hesitated for a beat, before nodding and slipping her paperwork aside.

She was watching Nicholas’s hands as he drummed his fingertips over the countertop. That drumming sound was a hypnotic rhythm, even to Wanda. It had a way of drowning out all other voices in the hospital, all other presence in the room. She reached for Vision’s hand and held to him as if he were an anchor.

“Do me a favor, Madeline, and destroy all records of the patient’s presence here. If anyone brings up the girl and her friend, I’d like you to laugh it off and tell them that it was only a rumor.”

Madeline nodded, her fingers typing on a loud and aged keyboard. She was already setting out to delete whatever information was stored on their outdated system. With a quiet laugh, Madeline said, “What a rumor that was! Everyone was talking about it, about that witch and that red devil. Couldn’t possibly be true. Those sorts of things don’t exist…”

Nicholas laughed, “…and if it were, I don’t believe they would come to us lowly humans for medical advice.”

Madeline laughed again, “Oh, no, no I don’t think they would. Uh… what were you here for again, Nicholas? I can’t… I feel like… I’ve been daydreaming…”

Staring with a glossy haze over her eyes for a second, the receptionist glanced Wanda’s way and then back at Nicholas. It was as though the lights behind her eyes flicked off and then back on again, before she continued, “Oh yes, your friend, there, you two were visiting someone, weren’t you?”

Wanda realized Madeline was addressing her as if she’d just stepped in beside Nicholas. She didn’t even glance in Vision’s direction. She didn’t even seem to see that their hands were clasped tightly together.

“Girlfriend?” Madeline whispered to Nicholas, coy.

Wanda looked to Vision, and she could hear his thoughts—recognition that she could not see him.

“Oh, no, no, of course not, she is a cousin of mine coming in from Novi Mesec. We were just on our way out, actually. It seems cousin Erik is recovering quite well, almost back to his old self. Wouldn’t you say so, Dolores?” Nicholas asked Wanda.

Wanda nodded, playing along cautiously, “Oh… yes, that Erik. Can’t keep him down and out for very long.”

“Alright, then, well I hope you two have a wonderful weekend.”

“Of course. Thank you, Madeline.” Nicholas said, before leading the way out of the lobby. He offered his coat to Wanda, who still wore the hospital’s soft, pajama-like garment. Her own clothes had been all of cut and destroyed by blood and damage from the crash.

“It’s a bit cold in town, I’m sure you remember. Where we’re going, I’m sure we can find you something warmer,” Nicholas said.

“Thank you,” Wanda accepted his coat with some hesitation.

Despite Wanda’s lack of ability to recall much of her life before leaving Wundagore, there was distinct familiarity to the way the light washed over the town through scattered grey clouds. The buildings were old, but far from derelict and unkempt. The streets were small and without marks. Weeds tore through cracks in the pavement and sidewalks. There were a few others strolling down the street, clad in heavy coats and scarves.

One thing she _did_ remember about Wundagore was that it was always cold.

None of the people walking by seemed to notice Vision, either. All the same, she felt him phase into ghostly transparency, floating beside her. She didn’t like to see him fade, but she understood his reasons. His hand slipped through hers as he levitated close beside her. It was the same invisibility act he pulled back in New York, the few times he stepped out with she and the other Avengers—if there was one thing she knew of him from the very beginning, it was that he hated startling people with his appearance.

“Where are we going, exactly?”

“There is a church at the heart of the town, one of the oldest landmarks of Wundagore. I’m sure you recall the one?”

Wanda nodded, “The Church of Sophetia. My mother volunteered there often when I was a little girl.”

“Perhaps your mother may have known mine,” Nicholas glanced back at her with a smile.

Wanda considered it—she could not recall any of the faces from that time, other than those of her own family. There were sermons and services typical of an Eastern Orthodox Church, although she never did hear about any Saint Sophetia outside of Wundagore. During these services, her mother often watched over the children, a daycare of sorts.

Thinking as hard as she could, Wanda could only remember wooden blocks from a toy chest and how much she had loved them.

“They are still there. The same blocks. I loved them as a child, too.”

She felt a small, sentimental smile cross her lips.

“No… they couldn’t possibly…” Wanda said.

“Missing a couple, but definitely the same ones. You’ll know the whole place when you see it, I’m sure of this. You would be surprised at what memories your mind chooses to keep in eidetic fashion and what memories you choose to just let slip away.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Wanda half-laughed, “…what is your mother’s name?”

“Agatha.”

Agatha.

Wanda felt her heart pound a bit harder and a cold chill fall over her, “…Agatha?”

Nicholas nodded, glancing back over his wiry shoulder again with a half shrug, “…trust me, she’s not as ancient as her name makes her sound. Well,”—a laugh—“…I mean, depending on who you ask, but I try not to speak ill of my dear mother.”

_Agatha._

The woman from the Witches Road.

There was no doubt in Wanda’s mind that it was the same woman.

As they passed a small diner on a hill, Wanda caught herself glancing inside at the sheer emptiness of the building. She thought, for a moment, that she may remember a certain table by a window, where she drank cold milk through a straw while staring outside at the people walking by. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear her mother scolding a rambunctious Pietro who was crying about ice cream and on the brink of a small tantrum. Wanda remembered shutting her eyes and feeling a sense of _gratitude_ from her mother that she didn’t understand. It was as if her mother had been _thanking_ her without words, as she quietly drank from her cup and sat still while Pietro stomped off and wailed.

In hindsight, she felt some humor in the situation. Her mother really did have her hands full with Pietro at times.

“Do people still attend the church often?” Wanda asked.

“Oh, yes. Worship services are held every Sunday and Wednesday, the usual fare. It’s not as frequent as it was in our youth since Father Joseph, uh, _moved on_ , from the religion. Personally, it seems that when he left, half of the people who once came stopped coming as well. I’ve stepped in where I could, although I am no ordained minister by any means. No one wants to speak of the good Saint Sophetia anymore, it seems.”

The church itself was a large building, by way of architecture in Wundagore. As the oldest structure in the town, it had a courtyard of its own between east and west wings. She could not recall what lay in the passages of the church beyond the sanctuary—she remembered there was a daycare for children to play under the watchful eye of the sisters, and there were a few classrooms for slightly older children who learned of angels and demons in a more child-friendly manner. Climbing a small flight of cobblestone steps, Wanda took in the sight and all of its familiarity.

Inside, they passed through a familiar entryway, with deep, dark wooden walls and polished marble floors. Steps dipping down into the sunken chapel were all too familiar. Pietro had scraped his chin jumping down these steps once. He’d been bored while they waited for the adults’ service to end and while she had held the hand of an exasperated sister watching the children that day, Pietro had started rough-housing with two other small boys and jumping up and down the sanctuary steps. Ignoring three warnings, Pietro’s footing had finally slipped and he landed chin-first into the maroon rug that still decorated the floor. It was a minor scrape, a rug burn at best, Pietro was just as quick to cry about anything as she was, no matter what bravado he tried to put up. He cried. Then she cried.

When the service ended moments after, and their mother met them at the steps, she had laughed when the sister explained what happened— _“he cried, and then she started to cry, probably got scared,”_ —and her mother had explained, _“They share every little thing together, it seems, every scrapes and bruises.”_

Through great, carved wooden doors, Nicholas led them into the sanctuary. The benches were empty, and dusting statues of the saints along the outer edge of the room, Wanda instantly recognized Agatha.

Agatha’s eyes seemed to light up with recognition as well, when she saw them following Nicholas.

“See, Nicholas, I told you she didn’t have dark eyes.”

“In my defense, she had a different face the last time I saw her.”

Agatha rolled her eyes and approached them both. Vision slowly phased out of transparency, setting foot on the ground beside Wanda. Agatha’s lips curled in an amazed, but gentle smile when she saw the tall, scarlet, synthetic man.

“…and this must be the _Đavo_ the nurses were gossiping about. Bit rude of them. You look like a gentle soul.”

“You… you really exist. So the road, all of that, none of it was just a dream?” Wanda was still processing mild shock at seeing Agatha before her, without the monochrome shades of the Witches Road behind her.

“Well, child, of course I exist. I am standing right here, aren’t I?”

“Right. Yes,” Wanda said, shaking the doubt from her mind with a soft laugh, “…I guess, I’m just glad to know I didn’t imagine all of that.”

“Oh, dear little witchling,” with warm welcome, Agatha pulled Wanda into a gentle embrace and said, “…witches like us, the Road, it is all very real.”

Wanda was far from used to people simply pulling her into an embrace like that—all the same, she let Agatha welcome her as though they were old friends, family even. Perhaps in some regard, as two witches, they were some degree of spiritual family. It was different, however, from the way she felt when Clint embraced her, different from the way Sam and Steve and Scott had made her feel when they had all but welcomed her back from the dead.


End file.
